Heal Me
by LS Jules
Summary: Loosely -ahem- based on a personal experience, the following is a foray into a young girl's most prevalent obsessions - World of Warcraft, and the infuriatingly egotistical Orc Warrior who kicks her from group. For those who enjoy the humor of MMORPG's.
1. CH 1

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER ONE-<strong>

Let me start off by admitting my two, and only, weaknesses. The first is World of Warcraft. There, I've said it. (_Hi, my name is Laura, and I'm a hopeless Warcraft addict…_)

You wouldn't think so to look at me, though. If I were holding up the game store line, keeping you from getting the latest first-person Shooter, you'd assume I was lost on my way to Abercrombie and Fitch because let's be honest – I have an obvious tendency toward personal hygiene. I don't have any crumbs down my shirt; my teeth are still white because I've learned that coke isn't water… You'd take one look at me and think that because I wear Uggs and no makeup, because I have long hair and a linen scarf, that I drive a Prius. But I wouldn't much appreciate the judgment.

Anyway, I like to stay up late raiding with strangers around the world. And not many of my friends understand what I mean by 'downing bosses', but I don't care. I don't have very many IRL anyhow, not now that all I care about is getting epic gear, and showing up that stupid, egotistical Smithlol, bringing me to my second weakness: A teeny, tiny streak of anger that is usually dormant.

But once in awhile it runs rampant, which is why I'm in the current predicament.

**[Healslut]** That was not my fault.

And it really wasn't my fault!

**[Smithlol]** Really? Was someone else supposed to be healing?

**[Healslut]** Don't be a dick, if you want me to resurrect you…

The other guys (or girls – it's unfair to assume that all gamers are pre-pubescent, male outcasts, though the majority are), had stayed mostly quiet, since Smith and I had been at each other's throats pretty much from the beginning. Well, at least after the initial flirting.

_**[Smithlol]**__ Is everyone level 85 except me?_

_**[Healslut]**__ Apparently – jealous?_

_**[Smithlol]**__ lol… Maybe:)_

(Notice the little smiley face? I sure did. And he might have been hot, if he weren't such an absolute ass.)

_**[Smithlol]**__ Not jealous. Just curious why you guys aren't doing Heroics._

_**[Healslut] **__ I'm practicing healing – oh wait, you didn't wanna hear that…_

I'd started my character with the noble intent to heal – thus the name. But until this morning, after growing bored with tanking, I'd never had the chance. I'd been a tank out of duty. So, I actually _was_ practicing being a healer – that was no joke. Of course, Smith hadn't thought that to be a problem.

_**[Smithlol]**__ lol - You can practice healing me anytime, baby._

Now that last might have been an awkward foray into the reasons why you don't flirt with online characters. But fortunately for Smith, I'm not a forty-something, pervert with a skin condition and genital warts.

_**[Healslut]**__ Lucky me…_

_**[Shocksalot87] **__ Can you guys get a room AFTER we run this? I don't have all night…_

We were in a decently easy dungeon – one I'd seen a hundred times before. But for one reason or another (usually because Smith the ultra-tank couldn't seem to wait for the rest of his group), we kept wiping.

Which means everyone dies. Which means – It's _my _fault.

As soon as everyone was alive again, we made our way down another dark, stone corridor. Someplace you would never see, if not for games like this one. The cracks in the walls were life like, the dragons ahead breathed crimson fire.

**[Healslut]** Sure wish my Lay on Hands had no cool down…

_Lay on Hands_ is a spell that instantly heals a party-member with one little click of a button. It's a life saver, literally – the easiest spell to use. And my words were meant to be a joke. I was trying to lighten the mood by making fun of my ability to heal. Or maybe, deep down, I was fishing for a compliment. But nobody stroked me ego. Not even a little.

**[Smithlol]** Not really instilling much confidence, Heals…

Said my lovely tank. I was fuming, but refusing to leave the group because I knew once I left they'd all start bad-mouthing me. Saying what a baby I was. Only they'd probably use a more demeaning word than 'baby'. And I was no quitter.

**[Healslut]** Whatever…

I'd show him confidence.

**[Shocksalot87]** Come on guys. Can we just do this in peace?

**[Loverboy]** Yeah, I don't have much longer. Wife agro…

**[Smithlol]** We could probably get through this quicker if we didn't spend so much time wiped across the stone floor.

Before I could think of a witty, scathing reply to elevate my stature from shitty healer to shitty, bitchy healer, Smith was in the mix of bad guys, fighting for his quickly ebbing life. He really had no patience. I clicked a couple of buttons – the green beside his avatar icon filled up again.

Of the five of us, Smith was tank (supposedly the person who holds all the agro and takes all the damage), I was healer (supposedly the one who keeps us all alive), and the other three were damage dealers (the ones responsible for killing whatever we fight). So far, none of us were really doing our jobs…

There were still several more mobs of guys to kill before even the first boss. And there were three total bosses to down before getting the main prize, whatever that was. None of us really cared; we were all in here for points that we could eventually use to buy stuff in the game. We drove through two more mobs without incident, unless you count Loverboy and his continuous rant that his wife was threatening divorce if he didn't spend some time with her.

**[Loverboy]** Seriously, guys. My wife is pissed – I gotta go.

He logged off; there was a tiny, red lightning bolt through his name to let us all know he was gone.

**[Smithlol]** Fuck me.

He voted to kick Lover, and we all sat patiently waiting for a new member to be beamed in. It was a wonderful, bonding moment as we all banded together to whine about deserters. Maybe – just maybe – I was trying to get back on the tanks good side by agreeing with him.

**[Smithlol]** What the hell? Is it so difficult to keep a one hour commitment? People are rude.

**[Healslut]** Yeah, they are.

**[Smithlol]** I mean, maybe you can't heal worth shit, but at least you stick it out;)

I wasn't sure if that was a left-handed compliment, but it was probably the best I could hope for. Plus, I didn't want to start fighting again. Not yet.

**[Healslut]** Uh… Thanks.

**[Shocksalot87]** Not really his fault – except that it sounds like he married a total bitch.

**[Smithlol]** Doesn't matter. DPS are a dime-a-dozen, anyway.

**[Shocksalot87]** lol… Fuck you, man.

**[Smithlol] **Naw, I don't swing that way.

The new player bleeped onto our screens. He (or she), called himself 000slash000 – a rogue.

**[000slash000]** Hey peeps – how goes it?

And based on his language skills, he was likely a kid who may or may not have to log off for bath time at any second.

**[Smithlol]** K, let's go. Buff us up, Heals.

Bossy much? Ever in a hurry, the tank moved on. I clenched my teeth and clicked a spell that would give us all extra armor and followed behind Smith's large, lumbering character. He was all decked out in plate metal gear; his weapon glowed blood-red. Still, he was difficult to find amid the sparks as everyone shot off their spells a little too early. I worked as quickly as possible, tensely hitting keys and muttering under my breath. By the end of the fight everyone's life was down to ten percent except for Smith. He was at zero, and he wasn't all that happy about it.

**[Smithlol]** Fuck. Seriously, Heals?

My heart pounded with anger, but before I could start spewing insults at 75wpm, the others came to my rescue.

**[000slash000]** Dude, that was a tough fight, man.

**[Papaplayswow]** Yeah, take it easy. She said she was new to healing, remember? Give her a break.

**[Smithlol]** I did. The first and second times I died. This is bullshit.

I decided to stay quiet. I wiped sweating palms on my jeans, took a sip of my energy drink, and hit the pink res button on my screen. Smith's form reanimated; I healed him, begrudgingly.

**[Smithlol]** This next fight is a boss. I doubt we'll be able to take him with this group:/

Cocky bastard just couldn't keep his mouth shut long enough for me to regain control over my emotions. I gave in and typed a sarcastic mockery of his earlier choice words.

**[Healslut]** Not instilling much confidence, are you?

Smith dove into the fight, hardly waiting to make sure we were all behind him. The dragon took his life down to half in a single swipe.

**[Smithlol]** Not my job.

I resisted the urge to let him die, healed him instead, and started typing.

**[Healslut]** Actually, that little mark above your head? The _leader _symbol? It means we have to follow you. As leader, it's your _job _to make us confident.

**[Shocksalot87]** It's only a game, guys…

Smith ignored him.

**[Smithlol]** Don't get your panties all bunched up. Just fuckin' keep me alive this time! And stop typing!

**[Papaplayswow]** Got ads over here!

Papa was a fragile mage. He'd die if he stood on the boss's shadow, or if one of the minions breathed in his direction. I watched as his character ran around in a circle. Smith drew everything off him just in time. But now the main dragon guy was all over Shock. Fortunately, he was well armored as a Shaman. And by the time the fight was over – everyone had lived.

Because of me. I gloated.

**[Healslut]** How's that for instilling confidence?

**[Shocksalot87]** Piece of cake.

He was obviously trying to smooth the tension.

**[Smithlol]** A little luck never hurt anyone.

Everyone headed in the same direction, through a majestic doorway, into another part of the dungeon, where we wiped one final time. And now everyone was pissed at me, not just Smith.

**[000slash000]** Fail, man.

**[Shocksalot87]** What the hell happened _that _time?

**[Smithlol]** Ask the healer.

**[Healslut]** What? You can't keep agro for shit, Smith! And I spent half the time sheeped!

Translation – I was incapacitated.

**[Smithlol]** Heh… I couldn't tell. You were healing same as usual.

Just then, one of my roommates got in. The front door opened and closed. A bag was dropped to the floor, along with a set of keys.

"Hey, Cat," I called through my open bedroom doorway.

"Hey, Slut." Her endearing nickname for me had nothing to do with my extra-curricular activities _or _my game name. "Do anything _constructive _today?"

The fridge squeaked; a can of soda popped open to remind me how full my bladder was. I figured it would be a good three minutes before the group was ready to go again. But when I got back from the bathroom, my character was sitting all lonely-like in the center of town. I was no longer part of the group. They'd chucked me out like old meat.

"What?" I scrolled up to see what they'd said about me.

_**[Shocksalot87]**__ Why is Heals doing 8.5k damage?_

_**[Smithlol]**__ Might be part of the problem. I vote for a new healer._

"That asshole kicked me?" I was talking to myself, but Cat was in my doorway now, leaning in her usual relaxed stance and drinking non-diet cola. She didn't believe in synthetic sweeteners, and apparently my current conundrum wasn't a major concern of hers.

"Who kicked you?" she asked, irritated. "Sweetie, there's nobody else in here."

"On the game. I was doing a run, and the fucking tank just _kicked _me out." I was beyond angry now. I was traumatized, and premenstrual, and _irate!_

"So, is this all you did today? Game?" Cat slithered, just like her name insinuated, over to my bed where she took a seat, but only after tossing a pile of clothes and books to the floor.

"You say that like it's a bad thing… Hey," I turned halfway around in my swivel chair. "I just organized that pile!"

"Me too."

"You are such a pain."

"And you love me anyway."

"Yes, by the way," I answered her earlier question. "This is the extent of my productiveness for the day."

She set her cold beverage, condensation and all, on my expensive oak side table. "Your BS sits crying in the corner."

"Whatever." I rolled my eyes. "Use a coaster."

"Do you _ever _plan on joining the rest of us in our rat-race toward the financial top of the world?" she asked me, referring to the fact that even after graduating from Columbia, I had yet to apply for a job in my field. "Or are you just gonna ride the trust-train forever."

"Bitch," I muttered teasingly.

"Rich girl."

"Nice insult coming from the one wearing my designer jeans."

She laughed. "They don't fit you anymore now that you spend all your time at that computer."

"Not _all _my time," I countered, giving her the evil eye. "I paid my _rent _today."

Suddenly, her confidence mellowed into chagrin. "Is it the fifth of the month already?"

"And I paid yours." I went back to my computer, only to realize with a certain measure of distress that Smithlol wasn't even on my realm. He was using an entirely different server, one that I wouldn't be able to access without starting a new character.

Oh well. He couldn't be allowed to just _get away _with brushing me off! That would set a very bitter standard. I jotted down the words Smithlol and Winterhoof on a blue sticky note, planning my revenge.

The front door opened again, only this time it didn't close. _Someone _had left it hanging lazily open.

I eyed Cat who stood from the bed. "And hers," I sang, talking about our third roommate who liked to title her occupation as a 'dancer'.

Yeah.

"What _time_ is it?" I asked rhetorically, checking the clock at the bottom of my monitor. It read 5:35pm.

"Stop it," Cat warned. She knew all too well what I was getting at. That innocent Sarah had been out all night _and _day – she was probably coming down off a coke high.

"I know, I know." My hands went defensively into the air. "She's been your friend since daycare, and she's just going through a 'hard time'," I quoted Cat in my most sarcastic voice.

"You've never had to work for a fucking thing in all your sparkly, little life, Laura," she seethed before storming from the room.

And she had a point.


	2. CH 2

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER TWO-<strong>

Later, after a hot shower, I went back to my room. Several empty cans found their way into an overflowing garbage can as I decided to tidy up. But then I sighed and gave up. I hated to admit it, but ever since I was a baby, someone else had picked up after me. I wasn't used to this kind of life. The mirror behind my bedroom door showed a tiny pixy of a girl with wide, hazel eyes, a spattering of freckles, and long hair, the color of burned caramel. Cat was right to say the jeans she stole no longer fit me. But it wasn't due to weight _gain_.

Rather than being a nervous eater, or a bored eater, I was the type to indulge whenever content. And lately, that hadn't been the case. So my hips and collar bones protruded exotically.

I slipped into the only clothes I owned that didn't give away the fact that my father was a billionaire, a pair of boot-legged Levi's and a baggy, beige sweater. Then I sat back down to my computer, intent to have the last word.

After entering my password, I was logged into the boot-up screen and given the option to choose from a hundred different servers. I found Winterhoof and went with the first character choice that popped up. I didn't bother with changing race, or class, or features. I simply hit 'enter world' and watched the load up screen with its 'tip of the day'.

_Tip: When interacting with other players, a little kindness goes a long way!_

I searched the 'who' tab and saw that no-life-Smith was, in fact, still logged into the game. But now that I had him at my mercy – what would I say? What did I want?

The sting of rejection still throbbed within as I remembered all the hurtful, if truthful, things he'd uttered. I reminded myself that I _am _a worthy healer. He had no right. Then I typed, whispering him in private chat.

**[Healslut2]** How dare you!

He replied very quickly.

**[Smithlol]** Seriously? Leave me the fuck alone, would you?

**[Healslut2]** You kicked me out of the group? What kind of prick does that to someone?

**[Smithlol]** You weren't doing your job.

**[Healslut2]** I wasn't doing _my _job? _You_ weren't holding agro!

**[Smithlol]** You're in fucking epic gear and you still couldn't manage a regular run. STOP psting me!

**[Healslut2]** You're just some repressed alpha who's finally found a place he can push people around.

**[Smithlol]** And you're a spoiled bitch who can't stand the thought of someone rejecting her.

Wow. That was harsh – but true. It was the reason I'd chased him onto his own personal realm. I'd wanted to prove myself. I'd wanted to make my case, because I couldn't stand that someone didn't like me. I was hurt and lashing out. Still… Blood boiled now, my hands were shaking, and my heart was trying to break my ribs.

**[Healslut2]** Please. If anyone was going to reject me – I'm glad it was you, ASSHOLE.

**[Smithlol]** AUTO RESPONSE: THIS CHARACTER IS IGNORING YOU.

"_Ignoring _me?" I slammed an open palm down onto the desk. A resulting shower of prickles went through my hand and wrist.

I sat there for several minutes, staring at the level-one, undead around me and wondered if I was possibly the only loser to stalk someone in an online game. For a moment, a very bleak and _desperate _moment, I actually went through the tedious process of killing enough zombies for the 30 copper needed to send Smith a message through the game's internal mail system. One he might not read, but he couldn't just ignore.

Idly, as I thought about what I might write, I gained the money needed (only dying once in the process), then ran frantically for the nearest mailbox. Talk about diligence. I may have been partially aware of my temporary insanity, but my need to have the final word was still ruling over my actions.

_Fine. I might be a lousy healer, but I got my epic gear running heroics as a tank, so I feel qualified to inform you how much you suck. You can't hold agro; you don't wait or mark targets. But whatever, at least you're cool, right? Have a great life._

It was the perfect, poetic mix of humble and mean. I hit send and logged for the night. That was the end of that.


	3. CH 3

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER THREE-<strong>

Next morning was bright and freezing cold. Sunshine glinted blaringly off a fresh blanket of snow outside. The apartment was filled with the scent of Saturday morning French toast and freshly brewed coffee.

After brushing my teeth and pulling my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head, I trudged to the kitchen. "Morning, girls," I greeted Sarah at the stove, and Cat reading the morning paper at the counter.

Sarah rubbed at her swollen eyes, the broken capillaries looking particularly painful. "Morning."

"What's wrong with your face?" I asked her, grabbing a mug and filling it with dark liquid from the coffee carafe. I added a splash of vanilla cream.

"She left her contacts in for two whole days." Cat sighed. "Even slept in them."

"Ouch." That was me before taking up the bar stool to Cat's right. "Occupational hazard?"

Cat rattled a bottle of her wheat grass pills to cover her warning. "Shut it."

"Some of us don't have the luxury of family money," Sarah said in a defeated tone. She was a tiny brunette, not nearly five feet tall. When I'd first met her, two years ago, she'd been chubby and happy. Now, because of the cocaine, she was haggard and irritable. I wasn't sure if the coke led to her current profession of being an exotic stripper, or vice versa. Either way, there was little excuse.

"Yeah," I replied with mock admiration, "But look at Cat working through that little snag."

"I'm talking about you and your Daddy-Warbucks." Sarah handed out plates of French toast she'd sprinkled with powdered sugar. There were even slices of orange coiling fresh sprigs of parsley. "But whatever," she mumbled, leaving the kitchen without eating.

"Why do you let her do this to herself?" I asked as I sipped my coffee - the greatest breakfast of all time, in my opinion.

"She'll pull through." Cat sounded so sure. "She just needs time."

"How much time does she have left? She's not eating or sleeping much. She stays up all night. She's unhappy," I added, thinking how she'd given up on her dream of being a chef. "And she won't listen to me."

"Gee, I wonder why," Catrina offered with a roll of her eyes.

"Yeah, I _do _wonder why. What reason have I given her to hate me?"

"Seriously?" Cat sighed before turning to me. "You're awfully judge-mental for someone who's never experienced the hardships of life."

"I am not judge-mental. I'm a realist. An honest one."

"Look, you're my best friend, Laura. So, I'm gonna be perfectly honest. You've had a free ride your whole life! You've never experienced a single moment of desperation. So it's real easy for youto be a _realist._ To stand on your golden pedestal and point out everyone else's bad choices."

Under my breath, I said, "I've made bad choices."

Cat sighed, pushed her black glasses up her nose with one long finger, and turned a crisp page of the paper. I had to admire how elegantly she pulled off the traditional gothic look. "I realized when all of this," she waved at the room, "started, that I had two choices. I could push her and push her to change until I eventually pushed her away. Or, I could wait patiently for her to _ask_ for my help."

"That sounds so mature now." I slid from my seat, feeling the tingling in my heels as I touched down. "But you'll think differently when it's too late. She needs an intervention."

Cat snorted laughter. "Are you the pot or the kettle?" she asked me.

"Whatever." I headed to my computer, not admitting I had a clue what she was talking about.

Saturdays were usually very peaceful. Catrina worked a half day at the clinic as a veterinary assistance, and Sarah slept all the way until she had to get ready for work. It was a pretty messed up situation when the one roommate who _didn't _work for the man was the one paying the rent on time.

I staved off the urge to get on the game, made a quick phone call to my widowed father, and turned on the gas fireplace before doing a little yoga. I even pulled out my pink laptop and wrote a couple of humorous poems about animals and drug use - poems that would never be published as long as I refused to admit what I _really _wanted to do with my life.

By four o'clock, with the sound of Sarah snoring from the next room, I found myself at my desk, scrolling through the list of servers. Without thinking, I clicked Winterhoof and watched my level one character appear. She was certainly ugly, now that I had the time to take in the fact that she was missing the lower part of her jaw and most of her hair. Why people chose the undead class was beyond me.

My mouse wavered between two buttons. One said 'enter world', the other said 'delete'. I should just eliminate Healslut2, I thought to myself. I would never log onto her again anyhow… I didn't need to re-open that box of worms. Then again, what if Smith mailed me back? And if so, did I want to read it?

Choosing to wait and delete her later, I logged into Winterhoof. I sat on the edge of my seat and watched the little green line fill up from left to right. At one point, I was certain it was stuck, that I'd never get this over with. But finally, my ugly character was standing, or hunching rather, just where I'd left her.

At the top of the screen, next to a mini map of the surrounding areas, a little envelope beckoned. I had mail.

Just then Sarah's bare feet trod down the hallway. She poked her face into my room. "Hey, I have something for you."

My chair arched away from a very pressing issue. Had he written me back? Or was the letter from a game administrator. If Smith had put in a complaint about me, my account might get suspended.

Hurried, I asked, "What's up?"

Sarah cleared her throat. After this many hours without her drug of choice, her face was showing actual signs of life. Her cheeks were pink again; her eyes were brighter, but still lacked the glow of vibrant health.

"Rent." She tossed a stack of fives, tens, and ones on my bed. It was about three inches thick.

"Oh." I hadn't really expected to be paid. Not with her addiction having worsened lately. "I didn't…"

"I know what you think of me, okay? I know you think I'm a flake."

I pulled in a deep breath of air. "I just don't like what you're doing to yourself."

"You think I'm selfish."

"Aren't you?" I asked. "Look, it doesn't matter. And I don't need the money. Why don't you put it in an account, so you can go back to culinary school?"

She scoffed at me, turning toward the door. "Right."

"I'm serious." Before she could leave, I scooped up the cash and flipped through it.

"I don't want your charity," she seethed.

"It's not _charity_; I'm just trying to help out a friend." I almost choked a little on that last word as Sarah and I had never actually been friends. We'd only ever put up with each other (and barely), for Catrina's sanity. "You can set your rent each month aside, and when you have enough, you can quit that demeaning job of yours and finish school."

Sarah crossed her spindly arms over a non-existent chest. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of my true motivations. "Real-ly?"

"Really, but there's one catch." I drive a hard bargain. Something I learned from my high executive, no bullshit father. I used to get sent home from school for trying to use rhetoric against my teachers. All of them, from kindergarten up.

"And what's that?"

"No more coke. Not at work. Not after work."

For a minute, she looked to be seriously considering my offer. But then a shadow crossed her features and the wan smile that nearly reminded me of her old happy self, was gone. "No, thanks."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine." And in a moment of hostility (remember my little anger management problem?), I tossed the stack of money in the trash. It was a metaphor to express my distain for her pride. "Just throw it all away, then."

I meant her life.


	4. CH 4

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER FOUR-<strong>

Not to sound insensitive, but as Sarah stocked angrily in the direction of the shower, I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder to see that the mail icon was still there, taunting me.

Everyone loves mail, right? Little thank you notes, and party invitations, and hate letters. My heart pounding with anticipation, I headed for the kitchen and riffled through the pantry. There was an obvious separation between the side of the pantry holding my contributions, and the side filled with the health-nut crap Catrina was always buying. I read through the ingredients on the back of an organic, vegan hemp protein bar before settling on a bag of stale Sour-Patch Kids.

Back at my computer, I stuffed two red candies in my mouth and chewed slowly, letting the mouse icon drift over the tiny picture of a letter. Finally, I decided to open it.

Low and behold, the lone letter was from Smithlol. And what he'd typed was very short, but it had me a little floored, because I couldn't understand what he meant by it.

_Thanks. I love you, too._

What the hell? I'd been expecting to be threatened, or at the very least, scathed. But Smith had written the shortest, most confusing string of words ever, especially considering I wasn't his long-term girlfriend. How would I even reply to this? Or maybe that was his intent – to dispel my neurosis. I switched over to my regular realm and vowed to forget him once and for all.

My faith in my ability had been nearly severed, like a broken arm hanging at a precarious angle. Still nursing the wound, I chose an easy run, joined a group that was very cordial, and we began to weave through a white-washed castle that lacked a roof. The sun shone down over rainforest greenery, magically hovering fountains, and groups of centaurs.

The experience was tranquil, mesmerizing as we went through the motions. I even had Creed playing in the background. But as soon as the second boss dropped, and our tank got the weapon he'd been seeking, he left group.

**[Sword_Death] ** Damn it anyway! Why can't I ever find good people to run with? FUCK!

The death knight had a bit of a temper that rivaled my own. I could actually picture him chucking his computer out a second story window if we had to wait more than twenty seconds for a replacement.

** [Martinsforlife] **Just chill out, okay?

Martin the druid came off as being very relaxed – the counter to Sword's apparent chemical imbalance. Not that I can judge…

**[Sword_Death]** YOU chill the fuck out, man! I had to wait forty five minutes in the queue before I found the last tank! We'll be in here for fucking EVER!

And he was partly right. We all milled around the space, re-buffing for over ten minutes before the mage made a suggestion.

**[Firenice]** You have a tanking spec, Sword? If you switched over to tanking, we could prolly four-man this place.

**[Sword_Death]** No, I don't have a fucking tank spec or I woulda suggested it already.

**[Martinsforlife]** It wouldn't be that hard to go and re-spec. I'll even front you the gold.

Members weren't allowed to trade anything across realms, including in-game money. And that's when I noticed a very strange detail about our group. All of us, except for Fire, were on the same server.

**[Sword_Death]** Look, I don't tank, okay? Lay the fuck off.

**[Martinsforlife]** I'd ask my wife, she has a warrior. But she's taking a nap right now with the baby.

**[Firenice]** I could check with my guild and see if anyone wants to join us.

**[Sword_Death] **Oh, brilliant idea. Why didn't you fucking do that earlier?

**[Firenice]** Okay, Sword. It's gonna be okay…

Poor Fire. I could sense his frustration. But I had to credit him for handling it _sooo_ much better than I would. Did.

**[Firenice]** Okay, I have a guy. Pass me leadership and I'll invite him.

What happened next was so ironic and horrifying, I wondered if maybe I was stuck in a nightmare. I'd dreamt about gaming before. But after slapping my face and rubbing my eyes, the name was still there in our party chat.

**[Smithlol]** Hey, how's it going?

Karma was shooting me in the foot.

**[Sword _Death] **Thank god! Let's kick rocks.

**[Smithlol]** I see you guys brought half a healer. But this is an easy run. Should be fine.

Tears were hot behind my eyes; the taste of blood came from where I'd bitten through my lip.

**[Healslut]** Well, you can always leave. Or maybe you just want to kick me out again.

**[Sword_Death] **No. The healer stays. Let's just go.

**[Firenice] **Do you guys know each other?

**[Healslut]** Unfortunately.

**[Smithlol]** She's my stalker;)

Winking smiley face?

**[Healslut]** Fuck you, Smith.

**[Smithlol] **Ouch. Hey, I thought we made up.

** [Martinsforlife] **Stalker? You stalk him? Like, IRL?

**[Sword_Death] **Shit. Come on, people! Who fucking cares!

**[Healslut] **I'm with Sword. Let's just get this over with. Quickly.

**[Smithlol] **LMAO

I was far too embarrassed to come up with a retort to his laughter that insinuated how 'quickly' he assumed we would be dead. How 'quickly' he thought the group would disband due to my negligence. The only thing I could do was to stay on my toes and prove him wrong.

As we moved along, maneuvering through the mobs, Smith made sure to check if we were ready. He was also marking targets with little icons above their heads, so the dps would know which one to attack. All in all, my job was very easy. Still, I made sure not to let Smith get below 60% health, just so he would have little to bitch about.

I stayed quiet and read the banter between the other party members. I learned that Sword was still in high school, and he was _technically _grounded for having alcohol in his locker, but his parents were out on a date. Martin was in a band, and yeah, he played a Martin guitar. He also had a wife of like, fifteen years, and three kids. By all the positive and uplifting things Fire said, I got the distinct vision of a short, balding man with a great big smile that antidepressants were to blame for. Smith was the most mysterious. Through all his witty (and damn it, _likable_), little quips, all he really let on was that he was into computers, and that he had an elevated sense of self-worth.

Right before the final boss of the dungeon, when I was feeling pretty good about myself, he whispered me in private chat.

**[Smithlol] **How am I doing? Up to your standard?

**[Healslut] **Look, I only sent that letter in a moment of premenstrual weakness.

**[Smithlol] **Sexy.

**[Healslut] **Leave me alone.

** [Smithlol] **I'm not the one chasing you through cyber space.

We were in the heat of the final fight with a boss that tosses us all into the air, and somehow Smith was having no trouble typing and fighting simultaneously. I, on the other hand, was having issues.

**[Healslut] **Stop distracting me, or you're gonna end up dead.

**[Smithlol] **You know, what's distracting? Seeing my life at 20% - think you have time to get me up again?

I clicked my quickest, most expensive heal three times to bring him back to 80%. Meanwhile our goblin mage (was it a rule that all mages had to be either gnomes or goblins?), Fire, had fallen over the edge. He was quickly brought back up by an air current, but before I could heal him, an addition came out of nowhere and destroyed him.

**[Firenice] **It's no problem! You got this, guys!

Said Mr. Prozac.

Next to die was Martin. He didn't offer any insults, or any encouragements. But Smith, of course, couldn't stay quiet.

**[Smithlol] **They're dropping like flies, princess.

**[Healslut] **Don't call me that.

It was only Sword, Smith, and I now. The ads were all dead, but with the boss still at 40% life, and two dps down, things were looking pretty dreary. I didn't have enough mana to keep all three of us alive, and after another minute, Sword had gasped his last breath.

**[Sword_Death] **Suck! I was still top of the damage meter, tho. Anyone have recount?

**[Smithlol] **/sigh… And here we are once again.

Any amount of faith the last half hour might have conjured, was now dissipating into pessimistic regret. On all sides. Boss was down to 8% life. Smith had all but given up. I switched up my rotation and joined in the fighting. With my help in the damage department, we just might have a chance.

**[Smithlol] ** What are you doing? You're wasting your mana!

**[Healslut] **Just worry about yourself, princess.

In an effort of valiant teamwork, Smith and I fought tooth and nail down to the last few percent of our lives. It was a very close win, but in the end, when he and I were left barely alive, the final centaur had fallen.

**[Sword_Death] **That was fucking epic! Wow, nice job!

Everyone collected their winnings. Martin, Sword, and Fire all disappeared off the grid as they logged out, leaving Smith and I standing amid the quiet aftermath of digital destruction. I don't know what I was waiting for – maybe for him to give credit where credit was due? We were alone at last, and I wanted an apology, a compliment, _something_.

**[Smithlol] **That fight usually goes a lot smoother.

His avatar looked from side to side.

**[Healslut] **Are you serious? That's all you have to say to me?

**[Smithlol] **What do you want to hear?

**[Healslut] **I don't know – something along the lines of, 'Hey, I'm a douche, I was wrong about you, Heals'

**[Smithlol] **Something like that, hu? Lol…

**[Healslut] **It's not really funny.

**[Smithlol] **Actually, it's quite hilarious. And I would think it's _you_ who owe _me_ an apology.

**[Healslut] **Oh, really? For what?

**[Smithlol] **For that nice little letter you sent.

**[Healslut] **Well, you can just hold your breath. I'm not sorry about that.

** [Smithlol] **Me either…

**[Smithlol]** But you know, that little piece of mail could get your account banned.

**[Healslut] **Only if you report me for harassment. And you would have to have proof.

**[Smithlol] **Well, I have the proof. I kept the letter – read it all the time. It's really improving my game, don't you think?

Stupid, full of himself, meat-head tank… I was clenching my teeth together so tightly, I heard a little pop.

**[Healslut] **Do it, and you'll be sorry…

**[Smithlol] **Lol – Wow, you get wound up pretty fast. I'll bet you're dynamite in bed.

What? I was stunned into perfect silence, unable to believe what he'd just wrote. Was he flirting with me? Was he trying to get further under my skin? My fingers trembled across the keyboard.

**[Healslut2]** _You'll_ never know.

**[Smithlol]** That's the best you can come up with? You can't heal, _and _you can't banter? Come on… I'm giving you the chance to say what you _really _think about me.

Because until now, I'd been so cordial and refrained? I was really starting to feel like a bitch, but rather than rendering me apologetic, his words had left me completely tongue tied. Speechless, I stared at the screen. Smith's avatar was standing just a little too close to my own for comfort. I tapped the downward arrow a couple of times to back up, realized how the motion might come off as submissive, then tapped the up arrow and moved back to my original position. Still, no words had come to me.

**[Smithlol]** I'm waiting…

I didn't know what to do. My intent had been to put him in his place, but I was suddenly no longer mad. Adding to that lack of anger was the fact that I was shaking. And I didn't know why. I was confused.

**[Smithlol]** You there, Heals? Come on. Smack me around a little…

"What the hell did you do to Sarah!" Cat's voice, and my door slamming open, startled me back to reality. "She just left in a huff saying she might not ever come back."

"What?" I asked, my mind clouded over with confusion.

"Sarah?" Cat tried pulling me out of my haze by throwing her voice in my direction. "Our other roommate? What is wrong with you? You're all twitchy and shit."

**[Smithlol] **You know you want to.

And I really did want to. But Cat was demanding an answer. "Oh, relax." I sighed because now I had _two_ people on my back. "All I did was to offer to help her out a little, that's all."

"By throwing out her rent money?" In a huff, Cat went to my trash basket and reclaimed the wrinkled - and probably sweat-drenched - bills. She came to my desk, not noticing at all that I was currently on the losing end of a verbal duel.

Halfhearted, I answered, "It was symbolic…"

"Of _what_?"

**[Smithlol]** Don't make me wait for another letter…

**[Smithlol] **Don't make me lose sleep…

Okay, now I was getting pissed off again. I pressed the power button on my computer, shutting it all down haphazardly.

The screen went blank as I turned to give Cat my full attention. "I was just trying to help her. I offered to save her rent money until there was enough of it to pay for the rest of her school."

"Oh." Cat sobered instantly, setting the money in a neat stack on my desk. "Well, that was nice. But you probably insulted her."

"Yeah, I'm sure it dinged her pride," I admitted sheepishly, having not realized until that moment how rude I'd probably come off. I'd practically told her she didn't have the ability to make her own way. That she needed a handout. I rubbed my tired eyes with both hands. "I'll apologize later."

"You should still do it, though."

"Really?"

Cat shrugged. "Yeah, but don't tell her about it. So, is it wine or coffee tonight?"

I turned slowly, taking a calming breath of stale, NY air. "Coffee. It's Saturday night, I don't want to be all passed out by nine."

Cat followed me to the bathroom to watch as I splashed my face with water. Smith's words were still running through my head, affecting me over and over. Some fresh air would do me some good. So I grabbed my jacket, my keys, and headed for the door. "Usual?"

"Yes, please. Put it on my tab."

I rolled my eyes at Catrina's comment. Her tab was five miles long, and we both knew I would never call it in.

The coffee shop we supported was directly across the street from our building. I trudged through the snow, cursing the fact that I'd chosen to wear suede boots, and fell into line behind six or seven other late-night caffeine addicts. The ambiance was wintery and jovial, with slow jazz playing in the background. I wondered if people spent more on food and coffee when listening to jazz the way people spent more on alcohol when listening to rock.

Finally, it was my turn to order.

"Tall, no whip, non-fat, half-chocolate mocha, please." I rolled my eyes. "That's _not_ for me."

"Anything else?" The robotic blonde across the counter was writing with a felt tip on a white cup. It should be a crime.

"Yeah. Do you still have the holiday specials?" I asked.

"Um…" She looked confused. Either the word 'specials' or the word 'holiday' had rendered her completely dysfunctional.

"I mean, I know that it's January, but I really liked the caramel one…" I hinted, hoping she had enough in her tip jar to buy a clue.

"We have the peppermint mocha?" she offered hopefully, pen poised.

"Peppermint is _not _caramel," I informed her.

"How about just a plain mocha!"

"Still not caramel." I was growing irritated. "So you don't know what drink I'm talking about? It was a holiday special. For – the – holidays. And it had caramel in it."

"The Caramel Brúlée?" She finally got it.

"That's it. A venti with whip, please. Sprinkles… All the bells and whistles," I stated, reaching for the wad of money I kept in my inner pocket for 'emergencies'.

"Bells and whistles?"

"What?" I asked.

"What?" she asked.

"I think," a rough Boston accent from behind me joined in, "she just wants the Caramel Brúlée in its standard form."

"Oh, right." She took the money I offered.

I turned to thank whoever thought he was doing me a favor, and my voice caught in my throat. The boy was a masterpiece, with beautiful wavy black hair, and crystal blue eyes. He was probably in Columbia's legal program.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"No problem."

As I turned away, change in hand, I heard him order. "Quad Mocha - doesn't really matter what size." Only it sounded like, 'dos'n really madda wut size.'

"Sir, you have to specify a size."

He chuckled. It was a warming, sarcastic sound. "Fine. Tall."

The girl went about ringing him up. I tried not checking him out, but it was impossible. He was a walking contradiction in wool, and jeans, and black, military issue boots. The wallet he pulled from his back pocket had a skull burned into the leather, and a chain he didn't feel necessary to attach to his pants.

As soon as he was done paying, I found the paintings on the wall to be of extraordinary significance. I paced the counter, searching the indecipherable drawings for even an inkling of purpose. But they were all very much in abstract form.

"Geoff Berogio is a local artist."

I jumped and turned toward the husky voice. "Right. Of course," I agreed without much aforethought.

The beautiful guy was pinching his temples with one large hand. "Do you know who Geoff is?" he asked me with a teasing, if not tired, smile.

"Uh…" Honestly, I'd been too absorbed in online politics to pay much attention to rising, local artists. "Not really. But it looks like he has a passion." For blue.

The guy laughed. "I don't really like art either. But Geoff is a friend from high school."

I loved the way he pronounced the word 'art'. As though it didn't contain an 'r'.

"Oh." Yeah, I was really showing him the extent of my vocabulary. I hadn't even brushed my hair.

"It's cool that he got his stuff in here – should help him along." He nodded, exuding a confidence laced with sarcasm. As though maybe he could see through us all and didn't hold much optimism for life.

I wasn't sure how to reply except to offer my own personal experience with entrepreneurs who'd flopped. Probably not a good plan. Instead, I changed the subject to something else I knew nothing of. "Did you just get off work?"

"Kind of." He chuckled at what appeared to be an inside joke. I couldn't help but be enthralled that his teeth were slightly, and erotically crooked. "I do programming. So the majority of my job is sitting in an office, listening to music. Or whatever…"

I was most interested in the 'whateva', but I was far too shy to ask for him to expound. "Nice."

"I guess."

At the irritation in his voice, I had to ask, "Bad night?"

"Naw." He shuffled his feet. "Just got into a kind of _argument_. I think I pissed someone off. It's nothing..."

I didn't believe him.

"Name's Mason."

For a split second I just stared at his outstretched hand, like maybe I was from Mars, and we were used to smacking heads in formal greeting. Finally though, I offered my own hand, and we shook like mature adults. "Laura," I introduced myself.

"So, what do you do for fun, Laura?" The way he said my name made me all warm inside.

"Ah-ha," I chuckled. "I don't really have a lot of fun. Not a fun person."

His eyes twinkled at my remark. "I bet you're lying."

"No really. I'm totally boring. I don't even have a job."

"Must be nice."

"Yeah, it's _dynamite_," I grumbled, picking at a hair trailing along my shoulder. It turned out to be attached to my head.

"Dynamite?" Mason echoed. He was now holding his drink, but looked in no hurry to leave.

"Yeah," I chuckled to myself. "It's my word of the day."

"Venti Caramel Brúlée!" the barista interrupted.

Mason didn't even glance away from my face, and he looked a little suspicious – his eyes were narrowed.

"Tall, non-fat, no-whip, half mocha, mocha!"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked him, taking a drink into each of my hands. "Did I say something wrong?"

He studied me for a moment; I grew uncomfortable under his searching gaze. Finally, he ran one hand through his unruly hair and gave another tired smile that wretched at my heart. "No, no. It was nice to meet you," he told me before taking a step backward.

"Yeah..." Puzzled, I watched him exit the swinging front doors. An arctic breeze swept through the glass, bringing with it a drift of snow to sweep along a thin crack in the cemented floor.

I was left with a chill that stayed with me all the way back to my apartment on the tenth floor.


	5. CH 5

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER FIVE-<strong>

Somehow, I'd managed to distract myself for the rest of the night, knowing if I let myself get even _remotely _close to my computer, I'd end up on Smith's realm again. And I did _not _want to do that. Not really. Instead, I watched a romantic war movie with Cat and listened to her complain the entire time. She was into war, not so much romance.

After the movie, I took a bubble bath and deep conditioned my hair. I organized the bathroom, cleaned under my bed, leafed through the first chapter of an old trig book… By twelve o'clock, I was cleaning out the fridge.

"Are you okay?" Cat reached around me for some almond milk which she would heat on the stove because microwaves are evil.

My eyes were a little too wide, and not blinking often enough, as I answered, "Yeah, I'm great."

"Are you sure?" She stirred her milk, adding Stevia one grain at a time. "Because you're starting to remind me of-"

"Sarah," we said in unison.

"I know, I know…" I grumbled as I tossed a bag of slimy cucumbers into the garbage under the sink. On the one hand, I was proud to have lasted this many hours away from my game. On the other, I was starting to have just the _slightest _amount of sympathy for Sarah's addiction.

* * *

><p>After tossing and turning for hours, I finally slipped angrily from between my feather mattress topper and a plush down comforter. There was a calming red glow coming through my window from a billboard across the street. White light washed through my room, time and again. The calming strobe effect was from the traffic that never ceases. I shuffled quietly to the kitchen in search of one of Cat's herbal sleep-inducing concoctions.<p>

She was forever hailing the effects of something called… what was it again? I rifled through the 'medicine' cabinet.

Spirulina? No.

Niacin? No.

Acaí, royal jelly? No, no.

Valerian?

Yes. I popped two of the pills, cringing at their very musty flavor, and headed wearily in the direction of my bedroom, swearing to name my next game character Valerian if this stuff actually worked.

From my doorway, in the peaceful darkness, I glared at the sleeping monitor.

My interlude with Smith had begun with flirting, turned to fighting, and ended in – well, I had to admit I wasn't sure _how _it had ended. Why had he stayed to talk to me? Why did he say he'd lose sleep waiting for my mail?

And mostly, why did I _care_?

Because it wasn't yet _settled_, and his flirting had left me with a substantial amount of unease. Oddly, I'd felt more comfortable when he'd been mean to me. Now that I wasn't sure where he stood, I was curious.

At my desk, I turned on the lamp and the computer. The space around me was filled with a relaxing static as the fan whirred to life. I logged impatiently into the game and told myself firmly that I was just getting on my regular character to organize my bags, do a little fishing, maybe check out the auction house… Even if Smith was on the game at three in the morning, he would be safely contained to his own realm, right? It wasn't like I was _looking _for him.

When given the choice between two servers, Antonitas and Winterhoof, I chose the latter and told myself firmly that I could use whatever damn realm I wanted.

Healslut2 was standing next to the mailbox in obvious desperation to have someone notice her. She was pathetic. But not as pathetic as me, running my mouse over the place where a mail icon _would _be – if I had mail. But I didn't. So, I waited, because one could appear at any moment. Sometimes there were glitches with the system.

While waiting for the _obvious _issue with the mail to resolve itself, (because _of course _Smith would have sent me _something, _right?), I sifted through the 'who' tab to find his name listed as currently playing. He was in a ten man raid. It had probably been going on for hours… I felt suddenly embarrassed. Like a creepy, voyeuristic spy.

Just when the saner part of my brain had convinced the neurotic in me not to try and get his attention, I saw a whisper appear at the bottom of my screen in a heart-fluttering tell-tale pink. And as much as I hated to admit it, my stomach clenched when I looked down and saw his name.

**[Smithlol]** Looking for me?

Fuck no. Maybe. Yes? Was I this starved for attention that any random guy handing out insults was a reason for my breath to catch in my throat?

**[Healslut2]** No.

**[Smithlol]** Then why are you even on this realm again?

**[Healslut2]** This is my main character.

There was a long pause following my obvious lie. Then,

**[Smithlol]** Healslut _two_ is your _main_? A level one rogue?

Had I really rolled a _rogue_? I could practically hear him laughing through the cable. He was probably falling off his chair.

**[Smithlol]** Wanna join a run?

**[Healslut2]** Yeah, in about a million years.

Because that's when my level one rogue was gonna be a kick-ass healer.

**[Smithlol]** Come on. Most of the people in this group are completely horrible. You'll fit right in.

**[Healslut2]** You're an ass.

**[Smithlol]** lol – Then why do you keep seeking me out?

**[Healslut2] **As if!

Did I just quote Clueless? He probably thought I was fourteen years old. But I had the sense not to go into a spiel about my birthday like I was expecting a gift…

**[Smithlol]** Be honest. You're curious.

**[Healslut2] **Ha! Curious about what?

Aside from what he looked like, where he lived, whether or not he was as much of an asshole _off_line.

**[Smithlol] **You wonder if I'm hot.

** [Healslut2] **Are you really that full of yourself? Everyone's hot online.

**[Smithlol] **You wonder if I'm hot in real life. You wonder if I'm a good kisser…

Damn it, I was getting a little warm, and not from anger.

**[Smithlol] **I'll bet you even picture me naked.

**[Healslut2] **That is so disgusting. I would never do that.

**[Smithlol] **Yes, you would. I know your kind.

** [Healslut2] **My kind? You don't know anything about me!

**[Smithlol] **Undead rogues are crazy. And my Orc here is an undeniable sex god.

Now, I hate those people who, rather than actually laughing, say the word 'funny'. But I really had no other choice.

** [Healslut2] **Funny.

** [Smithlol] **Maybe someday, Heals will be worthy of him.

Anger boiled up to counter what was quickly becoming intrigue. I had to admit being _interested _in this guy for whatever reason – and it pissed me off completely that for a _second _I'd started to change my mind about him. But he wasn't different from the other day. His evil words had not been the product of stress, as I'd tried to tell myself, but rather indigenous to his personality. I was so angry at myself, I signed off without another word and logged back into my main character.

The game had a system – you only saw characters from other servers very coincidentally. If I joined a group to do a random, regular run – there was a _miniscule_ chance that I would run into Smith again. But the chance was very, very slight. And the runs were necessary to ensure better gear, thus better standing… So it was worth the risk. But as long as I stayed on my own server – he was probably history.

I ran my character, a blood elf that slightly resembled my own appearance, to the bank, then to the auction house. The game was in-depth, and often better than real life. When I'd repaired my armor and cleaned out my bags, I clicked the little green button that would allow me access into a queue where I would wait a measly ten seconds before being admitted into a group.

The first was quiet. We did the entire dungeon without a single comment – not even a 'hey guys' at the beginning, or a 'thank you' at the end. The second was rough. Several kids jumped ship midway, and the rest of us were forced to twiddle our thumbs, waiting for replacements. Finally, the valerian had taken affect.

I climbed into my now-cold bed. Outside my window, a light snowfall was coming down. It lilted back and forth with the breeze. I opened the glass and breathed in the freezing air – when I finally fell asleep, it was to thoughts of being bowed down to as the greatest online-healer of the twenty-first century. And Smith was in the front row.


	6. CH 6

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER SIX-<strong>

The next day, due mostly to anger (because my bouts of madness are so few and far between), I decided to take a hiatus from the game. You know, the way a heroin addict goes into rehab, I went in search of (*cough*) a job.

It was mostly because Cat wouldn't leave me alone about having so much free time and no actual purpose.

For a bit, it was tough going, because apparently Jack in the Box doesn't give a shit if you scored a 4.0 at an Ivy League college, and the age quota for working at the mall is like, sixteen and three quarters. By comparison, I'm an old lady.

So, I put in applications at every coffee shop within a mile radius hoping I could at _least _get free caramel lattes and finally found myself kicking dirty piles of snow outside a Barnes and Nobel's. On a whim, I went in and found my way to the front counter where a middle aged man with a balding patch (not _quite _in the center of his head), asked what I might be looking for.

Aside from the obvious – fame, fortune, and a bag of Doritos – I told him without any amount of desperation what I wanted. "A job."

Any job.

He gave me a kind, fatherly look – one that my own dad had never given me – and an application which I calmly took to the corner of the store. It was there that I ordered a burnt vanilla cappuccino, found a seat at one of the tiny, quaint tables, and started writing. The coffee was amazing, the ambiance a nice quiet place to daydream about twenty-man raids, and the application? A total pain in the ass.

Work history? What the fuck was that?

I filled it all in as best as I could. I mean, I knew my phone number and address, so that was good. The reference portion was nearly as horrible as the work history. But even with half the thing blank, the balding man still wanted to hire me.

I could hardly believe my luck (because that was absolutely what it was), and practically ran all the way home in excitement. Well, I ran up until I hit a patch of ice and caught myself on the hood of a taxi. The nice man in a turban scowled and honked about six times.

"Sorry," I waved then flipped him off as he sped away, spraying me with muddy water. But that was life in New York.

At home, I slipped through the door and Cat immediately freaked. "What _happened_?"

"Guess."

"Well," she offered slowly, "From the weird shit-eating grin on your face, I'm gonna say, you saw a bloody car wreck? Or no, a cat on fire? Wait! Two bums fighting over a bottle of mouth wash."

"I am not that demented."

Cat only smiled. "You found a job."

"Yes!" My yelling made her jump and spill a little of her afternoon 'refreshment'. "Wow," she looked afraid for me, "Is the job testing computer mice?"

"What?" I hung my coat on the rack. "Is that really a job?"

Cat laughed and wiped the wood floor free of red splashes in case Sarah got home on a rail and went ballistic. "Probably the only one you're qualified for."

"Ha!" I headed in the direction of the kitchen and half a bottle of red-blend breathing on the counter. "Is this the last of the wine? I asked her with a suspicious tone. She _did _look a little tipsy.

"Hell no," she scoffed. "Since when have I passed on the ten percent discount for buying six or more bottles?" She had a point.

I poured myself a responsible four ounces, questioning, "Is that your first glass?"

"Maybe…" It was Cat's turn to have the shit-eating grin. "Hey, it's Friday somewhere!"

I took a sip. It was good wine. "No, I don't think it is…"

"So, what's the job," Cat asked, following me into the living room.

I was still avoiding my computer – taking a cleansing break from the radiation… Instead, I turned on the idiot tube and started flipping through channels. I needed a relaxing break after my stressful day 'working'. If it was this bad now… "Barnes and Nobel," I answered. "They need a peon to keep the books all nice and straight on the shelves."

"Wow, that's perfect for you! Wait, I love this commercial."

I paused my clicking. "It's for anti-depressants. You have wine."

"I know, but watch."

We stared forward and saw as the actress on the commercial took a pill. Suddenly her expression changed from '_I wanna kill myself_' to '_That was the best sex of my life_'.

"This is for anti-depressants, right?" I asked, gulping down the last of my wine. "And not like, female Viagra?"

Cat laughed. She'd definitely had enough. "Yep."

"Wow. They use sex to sell, literally, everything now, don't they?"

"Seriously, I'm waiting for when they combine drug commercials with the old Herbal Essence commercials."

"I'd buy those pills," I grumbled.

"Right?"

"Speaking of…" I noticed how quiet it was. "Where is Sarah?"

"Sleeping."

I nodded, waving my glass for Cat to take the hint and get me some more.

"Do I look like your wife?" she asked me, putting her feet on the detested glass coffee table. It had already broken twice now, and it was a total pain to clean.

"If you were my wife, I'd be drinking beer." I went to refresh my own glass and finished off the bottle. It was going to be an early night.


	7. CH 7

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

This is for Demee, whose unrelenting encouragement spurred me on to complete another chapter. Thank you all for reading, and have no fear... Despite the whirlwind that has become my life, I WILL finish this story!

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER SEVEN-<strong>

Tuesday came rather quickly, considering my boycott of the game. Not wanting to give into the urge to track down Smith and enter _another _verbal battle – one that I would likely lose – and not wanting to fall prey to his charisma, I stayed off _both _characters, and spent time on other endeavors. I may have detailed the apartment with cotton swabs, I may have eaten twenty pounds of candy, I may have even spent (_cringe_), time with Sarah, but I – did – not – get – on – my – computer!

By one in the afternoon, an entire sixty minutes before I would need to be at work for my first four hour training session, I paced idly along the stretch of hallway outside my bedroom. With each pass, I glared in at the computer, wishing Smith's final words had pushed me away. They'd done the opposite. They'd drawn me in, enticed me, made me want the game even more… I'd thought of nothing else. I was curious if what he meant was a dare. Did he _want _Heals, aka, _me_, to be worthy of him? Was it simple flirtation? Or egotism meant to drive me away?

Finally, with my resolve - and the carpet - threadbare, and like a total junky having caught sight of a glistening needle, I rushed to my desk and logged in. At this point, not even nuclear war could have stopped me from checking my mail.

Right away, I noticed the little icon. I clicked it and read:

_You know, this game was fine before you came along. I enjoyed the raids, the simple things. But now, it's awful._

What the hell? I made the game awful? _Fuck _him! I read on:

_Now when I get on, I hope to see you._

Oh.

_I actually hope you'll be there stalking me. It's a nightmare. And when you're not on? It's not much fun, anymore. Do I miss you?_

My heart fluttered a little, a betrayal to my better judgment. Miss me?

_I wouldn't go that far. But I'm sorry if I pissed you off. I hope you haven't disappeared for good…_

It was from him – from Smith. Did he _miss _me? I could hardly breathe when I saw that someone was whispering me in chat.

**[Sword Death]** Hey, no guild? Why not?

It was nice to see a familiar name, even if that name belonged to a sixteen year old ADHD-ridden alcoholic with intermittent temper-tantrums. The guild question was one that came up often, since I was high level and fully geared. But I wasn't the type to play nice with others, and I didn't like the schedule. Most guilds _required _you have no job and no life outside the game. I had neither, but still…

**[Healslut]** Hey, Sword. I don't do group dynamics very well.

**[Sword Death]** You mean you don't get along with people?

**[Healslut] **Bingo.

**[Sword Death]** That's cool. Hey you wanna join a raid?

**[Healslut] **Ten man?

**[Sword Death] **Yep. Smith's in here.

Like, if I were leaning toward _no_ that would sway me the other way?

**[Sword Death] **He told me to ask you… We need a better healer – the fucker we had was a total douche. He ditched in the middle of a huge fight!

**[Healslut] **Oh, that sucks.

I was biding my time because I couldn't think to type. Smith had _asked _for me? He'd basically apologized in his letter, and now he was seeking _me _out? I checked the time.

**[Sword Death] **You there?

**[Healslut] **I can't. I'm sorry – have to work.

There was a long pause between messages in which I assumed the conversation was over. But just as I was about to sign off and head to my beloved J – O – B, Sword sent an entreaty. One I was not expecting.

**[Sword Death]** You gonna be on later? Smith wants to call it until you can come.

I scowled. I blinked. I re-read the IM. It was still there, though fuzzier now. And the edge of my peripheral was growing dark and quiet. Smith wanted to pause the raid until I could join? Me? The worst healer of all time? I took a deep breath to keep from passing out, and replied.

**[Healslut]** Why?

**[Sword Death]** I dunno. He's raid leader, tho. So, you gonna be on later?

After a quick calculation, I told him I could be on by eight. Then before I could change my mind, I turned off the game and sat in the quiet, listening to the blood pulsing in my ears. I'd just made an appointment to spend 'time' with the guy I sorta hated, and was sorta starting to love a little. Either because he was Mr. Alpha-Confidence, or because he was the first guy ever to stand up to me, I was intrigued.

Nervous, and probably smiling like a moron, I grabbed my coat and headed out into the blustery weather.

With all the snow and wind, I assumed it would be a slow and boring day at the bookstore. I envisioned the hours scraping by as I unpacked boxes and dusted the baseboards, or whatever they have newbie's do… I was wrong.

As soon as I opened the front door, I was met with a throng of people seeking sanction from the storm. There were lines of them at the coffee shop in the back corner, as well as trailing halfway around the room from the three front registers. Little crowds everywhere, bundled in wool coats and scarves, discussed what was fast becoming a blizzard. For a second, all I could do was stand in the doorway – directly between two storms. But then, a girl who looked no older than twelve, and wearing the most hideously pink-hued, plastic glasses, came suddenly out of nowhere.

Without an introduction, she tried pinning something to the front of my shirt.

"What?" I stumbled sideways, out of her reach. "Hey, watch it!"

"People will need to know your name," she told me curtly, pressing her glassing more firmly to the top of her little nose. "It's store policy that you wear this."

I took the name tag. It said 'Lura'. "Awesome."

"What's wrong with it? Too blue-collar for you?" she asked.

Was I _that _transparent? "No. It's just spelled wrong, is all."

My assumed 'trainee' pointed to her own tag. "You think my name is really Jin?"

Trying to figure out which was the greater burden to bear, being called Lura in place of Laura, or looking like you were adopted by Chinese refugees, I pinned the tag to my shirt.

"Well," she sighed and handed me an apron so we could be twins. "It's time to get to work, Lura."

I followed her lead toward the back room. "Whatever you say, _Jin_."

* * *

><p>Three hours later, I'd spent that exact amount of time straightening books, and putting away the ones people couldn't seem to put away themselves. My job, my <em>only <em>job, was to take the stack of ever-growing misplaced novels by the front registers, and help them find their rightful place in the store. Jen found great satisfaction in watching me flounder around with the giant basket. She wasn't so much vindictive, as she was childishly entertained. And I didn't blame her for that. I _did, _however, blame her for bossing me around like I was her invisible friend.

"Okay, Jen. I get it," I told her, stuffing a new batch of miscellaneous books into my basket on the floor between my feet. "History books go in the history isle, religion in the religion isle. Pretty self-explanatory."

"If it was so obvious," she countered, "then you wouldn't be screwing it up! No offense, but this job is really important! And if you put books in the wrong place, like that one over there, sticking out halfway? What is that? A hunter's magazine in the children's book section?" Apparently, she noticed the error mid-sentence and ran off, deciding to amend the problem I'd caused. Heaven forbid a child see the latest issue of _Field and Game_. They might grow up to realize not only was Bambi shot, but he was probably made into yummy venison jerky as well.

Whatever. I hefted my basket and went toward the center of the store. Several people tried stopping me to ask questions, but I just shrugged and did a little sign language with one hand. I'd learned a few letters in grade school, which was also about the time I'd learned that if you pretended to be deaf, people had a lot more compassion for you.

Jin didn't like that. "_What _are you doing _now_? You're going to get fired, you know? And on your first day."

"Only if you tell!" I stuffed a book frantically onto the shelf. "Besides, I don't have time to help people. These books need to be straight and ORDERLY!"

For a second, I thought she'd sensed my sarcasm, and might go on another tirade. Instead, Jen sighed and nodded. "You're absolutely right."

"Thank you." It was like we were talking about hospital protocol during a tragic bomb-raid. The bad kind of raid.

She went back to the front, but not before giving me a look of camaraderie. I spent the next forty-five minutes hard at work, but then something caught my eye. It was a dark head of very recognizable hair, one row over.

The voice was also familiar. It was Mason, talking to a friend. "Don't get that one, it's ridiculously over-priced," he was saying about a book. "And anyway, I actually have a copy at home, if you wanna learn C-sharp."

His friend responded with a laugh. "Like I'm ready for that shit, man."

"Maybe if you got off the game once in awhile, and did some reading…" Mason answered. "Here, this is perfect."

I stood on tippy toes, like the stalker I am, and barely glimpsed their faces. It was Mason, alright. And he was handing a book to the other guy, whose t-shirt read, _When in doubt, Rebuff._

The friend laughed a second time. It was a robust sound, impressing that back in the day he'd been starting quarter-back and wasn't yet over the ego trip. "HTML? Whatever. You're hilarious."

As they began to leave the Computer Science section, I gauged their direction and took a route to keep from being seen. I didn't want to be found at 'work' after telling Mason I was jobless. Also, if Jen found me talking to the patrons, she might think I was being ambitious and give me more work to do. So, I grabbed my basket and crept to the end of the isle, peeked around the side to watch Mason's friend as he set three books on _top _of the shelf, _completely_ out of place.

I ground my teeth and glanced at the clock. It read 5:52. Eight minutes until the end of my shift. Two hours and eight minutes until tonight's date. How desperate was it for me to count tonight, sitting at my computer with a box of Whoppers, a date?

Avoiding them turned into a game of chess. At one point, we nearly crossed paths, and how weird would that be? Even if I removed my apron and name tag, I would _still _look like the crazy girl with no life who purchased books by the truckload. Worse, the crazy girl with no life who purchased books by the truckload and _stalked_ him and his friend. And the guy online...

5:56.

Taking a preemptive measure, I ditched the basket and the nametag. Worst case scenario, I could say I'd been baking (guys love cookies, right?), and needed a recipe book! Before I could pat myself on the back for coming up with such a brilliant deception, I heard my name.

"Laura," Mason clarified. "Her name's Laura, not 'chick'."

Suddenly, I stopped trying to avoid them, and weaved through two isles to better hear their conversation. Hopefully it wasn't bad.

_Yeah, this bitch was all over me, and she was totally ugly. Plus, she likes caramel._

"Did you get her number?" The friend was pretty nosy.

From my place of hiding, I could see Mason smile a little. "Yeah, Greg. I always get girls' numbers. You know me."

"Well, you said she was cute."

Had he? I was blushing now and trying to fix my hair – a lost cause. But he'd actually told his friend I was cute? What else had he said?

"She _was_ cute." Mason flipped idly through a large, blue book. He didn't seem to find any of the pages of interest, or maybe his mind was focusing on something less tangible. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "But she was also…"

_What?_ Also, what? What else was I that caused him to look so indecisive?

Greg had his eyebrows hitched, his hands stuffed into roomy jeans' pockets, as he rocked onto his heels. Then he asked the question I was sending telepathically over the shelf. "What? What was wrong with her?"

"Nothing. She was really nice. She was easy to talk to – maybe a little rough around the edges, but…"

_Rough around the edges!_ I was about to storm into his isle to give him a piece of my mind (because _that _would prove him wrong), when Mason's next words stopped me short.

"I get this weird feeling I've met her before and she didn't like me much."

Greg laughed. "Not too hard to believe."

Mason mock-punched his friend in the shoulder.

Greg pretended to be in pain. "Alright. Well, forget the coffee-shop girl, and let me set you up with someone else."

"No thanks."

"Seriously, no trolls."

"Seriously, no thanks."

In a motion of exasperation, Greg sighed. "Fine. Whatever. You just gonna stay hung up on that chick – I mean _Laura_ – forever?"

"Maybe." Mason's answer left me all warm inside.

"You're never gonna see her again," Greg informed with a shrug of his wide shoulders.

"You never know…"

Greg laughed. "This is New York, Man. You gonna write your number in that book and hope she finds it?"

"Yeah, that's my plan," Mason mocked, drawing his eyebrows down over clear, blue eyes. He returned his book to the place on the shelf from which it had come.

"It worked for Beckinsale and Cusack," Greg said, throwing his hands into the air.

"In the _movies?_" Mason was rightfully incredulous.

"I'm just saying, it's a better plan than the one you've got. Plus – you guys meet and _don't _exchange info. You fall madly in love-"

"I'm not _madly _in love."

"It was a great movie."

"You have issues."

They started to walk away, toward the exit, Greg's words fading as they went. "I have six sisters. What's _your _excuse?"

6:01.

* * *

><p>By 6:10, I'd learned how to punch out, even though I'd never learned how to punch in. Jen assured me she'd fix the books. She was a master at 'the books'. I found my way through the white-washed streets. Wind whipped between the buildings and tried to rip my coat. It stole my breath and tossed snow ruthlessly into my eyes, burning them fiercely. By the time I got home, I was holding a cardboard tray of lattes, and a copy of Serendipity.<p>

"Have you seen this?" I asked anyone who would listen.

Sarah yawned. "Oh, thank you!" she said to the tray in my hands before relieving me of its weight.

"How wa_s _work?" Cat inquired, a sparkle of malice showing through the humor in her eyes. She was certainly getting a kick out the fact that I'd joined their brain-washed masses in securing a position directly _under _someone else.

"Fine." I tossed my coat into the corner where Catrina picked it up and hung it neatly on the rack. I was too busy examining the back of the dvd, to care much that I was being made fun of, or that I was being a slob. Getting my hands on this film had been a cinch, surprisingly. It had taken the kid at the video store a flat twenty seconds to know which one I was describing.

'_Yeah, it's the one about the book – no writing his name-'_

'_Serendipity.'_

It was like being on a game show. Very exciting stuff.

"Oh, man." Cat took the movie and made me follow her to the family room. "A _romance_? Are you gonna make me watch this?"

"I watch all those war documentaries with you," I bartered. "I even cheer when people get shot."

"She does," Sarah added helpfully from her spot on the couch. "We both do."

"And I got you a calorie free mocha…" I sang.

"Fine," she grumbled.

We all gathered around the television with our overpriced coffee. Sarah in her bunny slippers and pajamas, Cat wearing another of my outfits, and me in my apron. Well, I was wearing _more _than the apron – don't be dirty.

Partway into the movie, I was hooked. First of all, Kate Beckinsale? Need I say more? And love prevailing through every possible odd? I mean, I'm a self-proclaimed cynic, but a romantic one! So, I sipped my caramel macchiato and watched with not-so-humble eyes as John and Kate each sought to find the other. Halfway in, I was less convinced it was a sweet-filled sentiment that Mason thought of me in this context, because that's when I started to realize why I found this particular production so easy to relate to…

Kate was stalking John.

By the end, I was furious. What had Mason told his buddy for him to think I was a stalker? Did I just give off a weird vibe?

"See," Cat stood as the credits rolled. "I told you it would suck." She watched me carefully as I ground the movie into its case, nearly cracking it in the process. "Okay, it was bad, but if you break it, you pay for it."

I glared.

Her hands went up. "But hey, it'll spare someone else the agony of having to watch it."

7:57.

Time to game.


	8. CH 8

**DISCLAIMER:**

There has been some confusion with this story. Readers are assuming it is based on actual events. And while I will admit to having an altercation with another character on World of Warcraft that spawned the creation of this story, all character names will only _coincidentally _match those of the real game. All interactions are devised of my own demented imagination. I do not own World of Warcraft; no infringement against Blizzard is intended. And no harm to their gaming universe is intended, either.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER EIGHT-<strong>

After a quick, and powerful, bout of self pity, in which I slammed a few cupboards in the bathroom, and brushed my teeth extra hard, I found my way to my computer and took a deep, and _haggard, _breath.

How dare these boys imply I was unrelenting, or annoying, or _pushy_! Because that was the insinuation, right? Well, not with Smith. He outright told me what a brat I was – right before he blatantly flirted with me. There was no insinuation there… And I still didn't know if it was a joke, or not. But I was about to find out… Right after I found something to give me a sugar spike.

Quickly, I typed my login name and password, waited for my character screen, chose Healslut, and hit enter. Then as the program was loading, I ran back to the kitchen where Sarah was helping Cat design a new kind of protein breakfast bar for hippies, I mean, vegans.

"You can't just add ingredients all willy-nilly," Sarah, the stripper, was saying. I loved when she talked like a kindergarten school teacher. It made me wonder if she spoke to her clients like that. "There has to be a perfect ratio of wet to dry ingredients, or it doesn't work."

Cat paused in her efforts to pour extra hemp seeds into the mixing bowl. She eyed me coolly. "You better now?" she asked. "After your little tantrum in the bathroom?"

"You didn't break anything, did you?" Sarah took the hemp seeds away from Cat and handed her a measuring cup of almond milk.

"Yes, and no," I answered them each in turn.

There wasn't any candy in the fridge. I slammed the door, not really sure why I'd been looking in there anyway. The pantry wasn't much better. "Has anyone gone shopping, lately? Why are we out of anything good?"

Cat mentioned raw trail-mix and earned herself a glare. "It's healthy," she advised. "So that movie really got to you, huh? Ruined all your illusions about love in the real world?"

"No," I grumbled. "It wasn't the movie."

Concerned, Sarah joined in. "Then what's up? Was it your new job? Jobs can be a pain." She was probably talking about pole burns. Or maybe herpes.

On a stool, I riffled through a blue basket that had gotten shoved to the back of the pantry's uppermost shelf. In it, everything appeared old and stale, but the choices were all of the high-fructose-corn-syrup-laden variety.

Distracted by boxes of gum and a plastic bag holding the remains of what used to be toffee peanuts, I replied that, "No, the job's fine – the movie's fine. It's just this guy I met… It's a long story."

"We have time," Sarah urged, always up for a bit of gossip. Cat looked on with something akin to satisfaction that I was having guy problems. Not that she reveled in my discomfort. She was often telling me how strength could only be born of struggle – probably why she enjoyed the war genre so thoroughly.

I jumped from the stool, taking with me a misshapen candy bar. "Well, I don't," I answered. "I have a date with my game."

I wiggled my eyebrows for effect, and Cat's laughter followed me from the kitchen.

"Ooh, the _game_," she teased."Are you wearing clean underwear? Don't let it feel you up before buying you lobster!"

In spite of myself, I laughed along.

At my desk, I stuffed half the candy bar into my mouth and chewed. I was a nervous wreck now, not sure of what might happen – how Smith would respond to me, or how he'd chose to treat me. Our conversations had been tumultuous, ambiguous, and perhaps even suggestive, but never with any measure of actual, _truthful_ communication. I couldn't speculate with any amount of accuracy how the night would 'play' out…

Sword had whispered me six or seven times since I'd been away, frantic to get this show on the road; there was an invite-to-group notice at eye level. For a second, I thought about ditching them to avoid the inevitable shame. My faith in my healing was nearing ground zero, and likely we would not be benefiting from it much… But then, how would I gain strength, I thought sarcastically, clicking accept and watching as eight little avatars appeared along the left side of my monitor, complete with personal stats like health, or rage.

I knew Martin, Sword, Fire, and Smith already. Out of the other four that were new to me, Catabolizer proved more vocal.

**[Catabolizer] **OMG – I've been waiting all day for this run! School was bitter awful… I'm totally flunking math. Guess I won't be an engineer, after all…

From the beginning, I got the impression Cat was a nice kid who meant well. But the history between him and Sword was still lingering from yesterday.

** [Sword Death]** Then maybe you should be studying.

**[Catabolizer]** And miss out on all the wipes? No way!

He was very obviously trying to make light of yesterday's fails. The picture he drew didn't lend much hope for tonight.

**[Sword Death] **Oh, are you talking about the wipes you caused by letting your imp run around on defensive mode? Because that was so fucking awesome! You really know how to play your class!

**[Firenice] **Okay, guys. Let's just have a good time!

Thankfully, Fire brought along his displaced optimism, because we were gonna need it to offset the junior-high pissing contest going on.

**[Catabolizer] **Hey, don't talk about my imp like that. It hurts his feelings.

**[Sword Death] **What eva! I do what I want!

**[Zekari] **Why isn't there an age requirement to play this game?

In a way, I agreed with Zek. And so did Martin.

**[Martinsforlife]** Arguing over the internet is like the special Olympics.

**[Zekari] **Yep. Even if you win, you're still retarded.

It was an old joke - even I'd heard it before. But it still got a chorus of laughs from the group, and effectively shut Sword and Cat up. For a minute.

**[Smithlol] **Okay, let's get started. Cat, you can have your imp, or your felguard out, but only during the pre-fights, alright? We don't need any more accidents. And Sword, chill out a little. It's just a game.

As soon as Smith responded, I wanted to throw up a little for getting excited. What _was _it about this guy that his name showing up on my screen sent my blood pressure toward the roof? I couldn't even tell if I was nervous or excited, if my fluttering heartbeat was from fear or anticipation.

I ate the other half of my candy bar and checked my pulse.

It turned out, that because we were missing a second tank, and Martin's wife 'didn't have anything better to do' (in her own humble words), she joined the group.

**[Caché]** Hello, people. Here's the thing. You give me four seconds to get agro, or I let you die when you take shit off me. No joke.

Okay…

We girls were the minority at two against eight (unless you counted the pervert who'd rolled a female character so he could stare at her cartoon ass all day). And I had kind of hoped Cashé and I could be comrades against the droves of testosterone in here, if not for her snooty attitude. That was a no-go, but I didn't have a lot of time to be horribly heart-broken, because Smith suddenly took control, leading us through the beginnings of the raid.

He explained the fights, but I couldn't pay attention for the beauty of the place. Digital, or not, it felt so real around me. There was no ceiling above, but a thick layer of tumultuous storm clouds, of which a web of lightening crackled to cast a cerulean glow upon ancient stone walls. Elementals graced every corner; groups of them waited in majestic doorways. Electricity was everywhere, flicking in reds and blues on the edges of my peripheral, and also quivering up my spine to see Smith's next words directed at me.

**[Smithlol]** Heals, you gonna take care of me?

**[Healslut]** What?

** [Smithlol] **Martin's healing Cashé, and you can have me, okay?

I choked on the sip of stale water I'd taken. _Have _him? Was there a dualistic meaning to his words? Was I trying to read too much into all this? During my pause, he chose to whisper me in private chat.

**[Smithlol]** Hey, are you alright?

**[Healslut]** Uh, not sure. This is all very weird.

**[Smithlol]** Why? 'Cause I was an ass before? I tried to apologize…

**[Healslut]** Yeah, that was weird, too.

**[Smithlol] ** /sigh – I had a bad day, and I'm sorry… But you are an okay healer.

** [Healslut]** Wow, an okay healer? Don't flatter me so…

**[Smithlol]** You know what I mean. I'm not good at this…

**[Healslut]** Good at what?

I was about to get an answer to calm the pulsing of blood through my veins when Sword had had enough with the waiting.

**[Sword Death]** Okay, the scenery is fucking awesome, but all I really need is new gear.

**[Zekari]** You're telling me. Are you actually wearing a cloth head piece?

Zek was our token pervert, having rolled a female blood elf hunter, which was _apparently _the mature thing to do, considering his earlier comment.

**[Sword Death]** Okay. My little sister got on my computer and messed some stuff up. She lost my helm. That's really why I'm here. So, fuck off.

Smith marked a couple of targets, then Catabolizer bound one of the elementals, and we went to work.

The first sequence proved to be without incident, and I was feeling like a fantastic healer, except for the silent help. Martin didn't say a word about all the little HOT's he kept throwing on my targets to help me out, but he was probably carrying me… And I was grateful.

We collected gold from our killings, wandered through the first doorway into a magnificent hall. Everyone stopped to see the conundrum before us. There were about twenty elementals, and drawing them in the right order was essential. It was a puzzle that looked to be simple, but wasn't.

**[Smithlol]** Okay, so we didn't get this far yesterday. Who doesn't know this fight?

A chorus of aye's ensued. Smith explained:

**[Smithlol]** The boss is in the center. If we draw him before killing all the elementals around him, it's over. And if we don't kill the elementals in a specific order, we inadvertently draw the boss, and it's over. We'll pull them in groups of four.

As he went on with his directions, I watched several of the avatars around me break into dance. Cashé kept mentioning how bored she was, but nobody paid much attention.

**[Smithlol]** So, I'll mark the ones that need to be bound or iced, you guys need to re-cc whenever they come free, alright? With each sequence, it'll be skull first, X second, then diamond, and square is last. Got it? We do this four times, then the boss.

We all tried convincing him we could handle ourselves, and that we understood the instructions. I made no grandiose claims as my eyes grazed the power button glowing purple atop my computer box. The pessimist within was certain I would screw this up, somehow. Nerves began to rattle with the image of destruction, the bad sort. Because I didn't want Smith all pissed off at me again… And it bothered me that I cared, but I did.

**[Smithlol]** You okay?

He asked again, in private chat. Nobody else could see his words. Or mine.

**[Healslut]** Just don't yell if you die.

**[Smithlol]** Does my opinion really matter that much?

Yes. I didn't know why, but yes, it did.

**[Smithlol]** Heals… I won't yell, I promise.

Our Shaman was Záp, and he performed beautifully from his place in the doorway. He even helped out with the healing once in a while. Zekari dismissed his pet, and just shot off arrow after arrow, never drawing anything we didn't want to fight. After getting four guys down, twelve to go, and thinking things were going pretty good, Cat sent his felguard after a guy that Smith was on. Only, because the room was circular, and the path around the WRONG side was shorter, the felguard drew everything in the room, including the boss.

We wiped. Everyone died. My ulcer reached an extra centimeter outward.

**[Sword Death]** Dude, are you high?

**[Catabolizer]** Was that me?

**[Sword Death]** Does anyone else have a felguard in here? You're the ONLY warlock, man!

Fortunately, Martin's wife joined in to stick up for Cat, and in her efforts, diverted the attention toward _me_.

**[Cashé]** I was dead long before Cat drew the crowd. I thought your precious healer was supposed to be awesome, Smith.

Had he actually said that about me? If so, everyone was in for the disappointment of their lives.

**[Smithlol]** She is awesome, lay off.

He was actually justifying my change of heart toward him by defending me? Warmth gathered along my skin and crept into my cheeks.

**[Zekari]** Yeah, Cashé. I don't think your gear is as epic as you think.

**[Smithlol]** And by the way, Heals is my healer. It's not her job to keep you up. Martin should be doing that.

I cringed. This was _not _the direction I wanted the conversation to go. Either Martin would throw me under the buss by admitting he'd had to help me so much that he let his own tank die, and I'd be humiliated. Or he'd stay quiet about the issue, and I'd feel guilty. Either way, he was sleeping on the couch tonight. And maybe even tomorrow night.

**[Martinsforlife]** Look, I can't take care of the whole team, and Heals isn't really up to par tonight. Sorry, Heals…

The buss rumbled at top speed and crushed me. But I had to admit it.

** [Healslut] **I'm really not. He's right.

**[Smithlol]** You're doing fine.

**[Healslut]** I'm not.

And everyone agreed.

**[Zekari]** She's not.

Except for Mr. Prozac.

**[Firenice]** This game is all about team work. If Martin's been helping Heals, that's a good thing!

**[Zekari]** I don't think you're getting the point, here, Fire.

**[Cashé]** You've been helping _her_ instead of _me_?

Uh-oh.

**[Martinsforlife]** BRB – Need more beer.

**[Zekari]** Me too…

**[Sword Death]** Me three.

On a note of common interest, the group disbanded for a quick break. Even I ran for something to drink in the hopes that I wouldn't be kicked from the group upon returning.

Cat and Sarah had long gone to their rooms, leaving the house awkwardly quiet and dark. I had to switch on a light to see my way through the kitchen where I uncapped the only bottle of Corona and added a large splash of lime juice. I didn't usually crave beer, but Martin's suggestion must have left a subliminal residual inside my brain. As I trudged from the kitchen, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that I'd left the door unlocked earlier. I flipped the deadbolt and attached the chain - no use taking chances. When I got back to my computer, the other's had yet to return, but Smith was messaging me again.

**[Smithlol]** Hey, you there?

**[Healslut]** No.

I'd lost my state of denial about being the world's greatest healing paladin. Grumpy irritation had taken over. I didn't want to have to talk about it, either. I just wanted the run to be over with, so I could crawl into my bed and imagine the whole world away.

**[Smithlol]** So, I was right about your healing?

Yet, he stuck up for me.

**[Healslut]** Apparently.

**[Smithlol] ** I won't say anything, if you won't.

**[Healslut]** 'Cause otherwise they won't be able to tell?

**[Smithlol]** They might get a clue when their staring at pavement.

**[Healslut]** Awesome. Why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?

I was actually quoting Billy Chrystal there, and he got it.

**[Smithlol]** Ah, you like movies.

**[Healslut]** Not _all _movies.

Not Serendipity.

**[Smithlol]** Where are you?

**[Healslut] **In my bedroom?

** [Smithlol] **lol – I meant, in the world.

**[Healslut]** Oh. The US. East Coast. Why?

**[Smithlol]** Just curious.

**[Healslut]** Where are you?

**[Smithlol]** In bed. With Toshiba…

**[Healslut]** Oh.

Way too much information. And the sort that made my heart drop a little. Did he have a cool, tribal girlfriend? A wife? Why was he paying attention to me? I grew warm again, this time from anger, but it was immediately dispelled at his next words.

**[Smithlol]** lol – Toshiba? My laptop?

**[Healslut] **Oh, right. Of course. I knew that. Like I care if you have a girlfriend.

The scramble of idiotic words was there on my screen before I could think twice. I slapped my forehead.

**[Smithlol]** lmao – what?

I was saved from having to explain myself when the rest of the group returned as though they all had synchronized their watches. I'd been forgiven. Either that, or everyone had done shots of Everclear in their kitchens, and none of them could remember my awkward lack of heals. Especially Sword, who, all at once, seemed very uncharacteristically cheerful.

**[Sword Death]** All right, let's do this!

** [Catabolizer]** I'll put away my felguard…

**[Sword Death] ** That wasn't really your fault. And your dps is awesome!

** [Catabolizer]** …Really? Are you on something?

You might think that after a nice break for refreshment, things would go more smoothly. I mean, this is the part of the story where I tell you how we grew, and prevailed, and overcame, right? No.

At first, as we drew the crowds and wore them down, there was an empowering amount of sparks, and bursts of colorful light, and the noise of Fourth of July. Heals and arrows were flying amid bolts of lighting and pools of purple shadow spells. For a minute, it seemed, we had an authentic chance.

Smith was marking targets, Cat and Zek were taking care of the crowd control aspect; everyone was working together in a beautiful, graceful dance. It was mesmerizing. But then, it fell apart.

The first person to die was Cashé, and I can't say I was all that upset for the loss. Cat drew a guy and instead of going directly to the tank, he ran around in a frantic circle. Sword tried to help him out, but in the confusion, instead of grabbing the guy on Cat, he grabbed the one that was supposed to stay cc'd.

**[Sword Death]** OMG – I totally just grabbed the wrong one!

**[Zekari]** Well, don't kill it – I'll re-freeze it!

Too late. As Cat continued to kite his add, Sword killed one of the elementals in the wrong order, and a swarm of guys, including the boss, came at us.

**[Smithlol]** Shit.

** [Catabolizer]** Was that my fault again?

** [Zekari]** Combined effort.

**[Smithlol]** Yay for teamwork.

Until now, Merdok, our Death Knight, had stayed silent. A shame too, because he seemed to know just what to do in an emergency. Right away, he drew all the adds onto himself, instructing:

**[Merdok] **Zek, freeze one. Cat, bind one. I'll tank the rest. Smith and DPS on Boss!

We did as he told us. Smith dragged the boss away from the group to keep his AOE from interrupting our spells. Martin managed to resurrect Cashé, then he started healing her and Merdok like crazy as they gathered all the elementals in the corner. Cat was jumping in between the spells he threw; his little green goblin body was bouncing around on my screen, making me feel dizzy. Zek had pulled out his pet cat and sent it after the boss.

It was intense, but we were doing well. The boss's life was dropping lower and lower, along with my mana. I had to pop a few oh-shit spells, but even so, I was only able to keep Smith at about 40% life. Fortunately, since the last time we'd run together, he'd picked up some better gear.

Still, I watched his life drop, point by point. I watched the boss lose his life, also point by point. And when the boss was at five percent, and Smith was at one, I closed my eyes. That was it, I thought pessimistically. Then I opened my eyes to see that Smith was still alive; he was standing there staring at a boss encased in ice.

Zek had frozen him?

**[Zekari] ** Fuck. Accident.

**[Catabolizer]** Is that even possible?

**[Smithlol]** Must be a glitch.

Martin healed Smith to full life.

**[Sword Death]** That is so fucking awesome! Nice job, Zek!

Sword was running around the boss in a circle, definitely drunk.

**[Merdok]** Right on.

Merdok was still fighting alongside Cashé, but seemed to find the time to type.

**[Merdok]** DPS on adds, kill 'em. Smith can take care of the boss.

**[Firenice]** We got this!

On a high of optimism, we readied ourselves as Smith pulled the boss from being cc'd. It took us another thirty seconds to realize why the boss wasn't dying… He'd been healed back to full life while in the ice.

** [Catabolizer] **That is so not fair! The boss has full life again!

**[Sword Death]** HAHA – Zekari the healing hunter! Healing the wrong guy, tho! Hilarious!

**[Zekari]** Not really.

Cashé and Merdok finished off the extras. With only the boss remaining, there looked to be hope. But unfortunately, most of us were too intoxicated, by this point, to remember about the AOE – a huge energy burst the boss set off every thirty seconds or so. If you weren't out of range when this happened, it took 45% of your life and stunned you. None of us had that much life to spare, and in one fell swoop, we were flattened. No one survived. And silently, we watched as the boss returned to the center, his life spiking to 100% again, and each of his little elementals appearing around him. Thirty minutes of our lives – lost.

**[Firenice]** Well, we got closer than yesterday!

**[Catabolizer]** Yeah, we rock...

**[Sword Death] **Could someone res me? I'm like, under the boss. He keeps stepping on my face.

**[Catabolizer] **lmao

**[Merdok] **You know what might have helped?

**[Martinsforlife] **More damage?

**[Zekari] **Less alcohol?

**[Merdok]** Vent. You all have microphones? 'Cause I have a vent account we can use.

**[Cashé]** GTG – Baby crying. See ya.

**[Martinsforlife]** Yeah, I'm gonna go, too. I'll be on tomorrow. Same time?

**[Smithlol] **Sure, eight tomorrow. And we'll do the vent thing. That's a good idea.

Vent? Listening to each other's voices? Actually _talking _to Smith? Nervous butterflies grazing the inside of my stomach, I watched group members fall away as they signed off the game. Only three remained.

** [Sword Death] **So, no res?

**[Healslut]** See you tomorrow, Sword. Sleep it off.

** [Sword Death]** KK – G'night.

** [Healslut]** Night.

** [Smithlol] **Wait. You're not signing off, are you?

**[Healslut]** Me?

It was a stupid question, as Sword had just signed off for the night and I was the only other person in the party.

**[Smithlol]** Yeah, you. Don't go.

**[Healslut] **Okay… But I doubt we can finish this raid with just the two of us.

**[Smithlol] **Especially with your healing.

**[Healslut] **Shut up.

**[Smithlol] **lol

I had to wonder what it would actually sound like, him laughing. I pictured it being a low, gentle sound. I pictured it being a rare occasion.

**[Smithlol]** Do you still think I'm an asshole?

**[Healslut] **Are you?

**[Smithlol] **Sometimes. But I can be nice. I'm not all bad.

**[Healslut] **So that's why you wanted me here? To tell me you weren't _all_ bad? Was it worth it, as much as I suck?

**[Smithlol] **You don't suck.

**[Healslut] **Liar.

**[Smithlol] **lol – You don't suck _entirely._

**[Healslut] **Oh, good. I feel better.

**[Smithlol] **lol - I guess I just wanted the chance to prove that I wasn't a total jerk.

The verbal bruising he'd done was almost entirely forgotten now. But I couldn't be that easy to win over. I had to play a little hard to get, right?

**[Healslut] **Just part jerk.

**[Smithlol] **Ahh… That hurts. I brought you along, right? I stuck up for you… I told them all how cool you are.

Shocked, I could only respond with:

** [Healslut] **You said that about me?

** [Smithlol]** It's true.

**[Healslut] ** You don't know that.

**[Smithlol]** I know you chased me down and put me in my place.

**[Healslut] **Yeah, that was mean…

**[Smithlol] **No, actually… It was hot.

The simple revelation melted my heart and warmed my cheeks. I couldn't help it. After another hour of talking, I learned that Smith had a place in upstate New York, that he was 24 years old, and that he worked in programming (didn't everyone?), which was the reason he was on this game at all times, both day and night. I also learned that he was funny, if sarcastically so, and that I liked him. A lot. I tried getting off the game several times, but he kept asking me not to go. And he was hard to resist…

**[Smithlol]** So, you forgive me?

**[Healslut]** Why not?

He offered a witty response that I leaned in to read. Before I could fully get the joke, I heard the distinct sound of someone knocking on my front door. At one in the morning.

**[Smithlol]** Are you still there?

**[Healslut]** Yeah, I just… I think someone's at my front door.

**[Smithlol]** Oh. Wait, didn't you say you were on the east coast? It's one am.

So, it wasn't just me. Smith also found it strange that I would be getting visitors so late. Or early. The knock sounded again, more insistent.

**[Healslut]** Yeah – I wasn't expecting anyone. But I don't live in the best neighborhood. And my roommates are asleep.

**[Smithlol]** Don't answer it.

**[Healslut]** What should I do?

** [Smithlol]** Call the cops? Now? But don't get off the game.

There's something about adrenaline that strips away all inhibitions to leave a person very honest. In a moment of desperate vulnerability, as I listened to the knocking grow louder, and a male voice insist on being let in, I wrote the following without thought.

**[Healslut]** I wish you were here.

I didn't think twice about the admission, and I wasn't fearful of the response I might get, or if I'd stepped over any lines a little too soon. But Smith didn't care. And his words were sweet enough to make me yearn, even in the face of unknown danger.

**[Smithlol]** Me too…

As I reached for my cell phone, the knocking stopped. Silence ensued, more deeply after the rumble that didn't even cause my roommates to stir. Sarah snored so loudly, she wouldn't be able to hear a typhoon as it ripped the roof off our building. And Cat had to wear ear-plugs every night, so she was just as oblivious. I set my phone aside, relieved.

**[Smithlol]** Did you call? Are you okay?

**[Healslut]** No, and yeah. They went away.

**[Smithlol]** Are you sure?

He seemed authentically worried.

**[Smithlol]** Did you check?

**[Healslut]** It's fine. It was probably just a mistake.

A loud, splintering crash sounded through the apartment to prove me incorrect. My heart started to pound wildly as I realized they were trying to break in. Probably with an ax…

**[Healslut]** Oh, shit. I have to go. Whoever they are, they're breaking in.

**[Smithlol]** CALL THE COPS!

I ran to Cat's room and barged in. "Wake the fuck up! Someone's breaking into the apartment."

"Wha…?" She pulled out her earplugs and blinked at me. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Listen."

Her eyes widened as the sound reached us again. The distinct sound of an intruder. Someone was looking for money, or something to pawn, or… I didn't want to think of the other possibilities.

"Get up! Get Sarah!" I pulled on Cat's arm, leading her into the hallway. "I'll call the police."

_If we have enough time…_

I listened to the ruckus happening in Sarah's room as I fumbled around for my phone. It was sitting in a pile of wrappers. Smith was still messaging me, but I didn't have time to read what he'd written.

I dialed.

"Nine one one – state your emergency," the operator told me.

"Yeah…" I had to pause and take a breath. My voice was so shaky it was hard to talk. "Someone's trying to get into my apartment."

She asked for my address, and I had to think about it for a second. My mind didn't seem to want to cooperate under the stress. From inside my room, I could only see the hallway, and part of the living room. When I stepped into the hall where Cat was trying to sooth a very wide-eyed Sarah, I could see the kitchen and the front doorway.

"Who is it?" Cat whispered frantically as though I had an answer.

I shrugged. "Santa Clause?"

"Miss," the operator insisted, "I need your address."

"What's our address?" I hissed.

"You don't know our address?" Cat was appalled as she snatched the phone from my hand.

Sarah was quivering and white as a ghost. Cat gave the 9-1-1 person our information and stayed on the line. The banging stopped for a second, and we could hear two men arguing, then there was a new sound. Hammering of metal on metal.

Our apartment was only one of the two units located on the tenth floor, and the other one was vacant. Even if anyone on the ninth or eleventh floors could hear what was going on, none of them would risk their necks to save us. This was New York, not Washington.

"We should hide!" I pointed into my room. "Under my bed. Go!"

They followed me, but doubtfully.

Cat grumbled, "Oh, yeah. This plan is totally without flaw. They'll never look here."

"Whatever!" I seethed. "It didn't look like you were coming up with anything better!"

From under my bed, we listened to the sound of hammering. Sirens cut in, but we couldn't be certain they were for us. Finally, and for the first time tonight, Sarah spoke up in the darkness.

Her tone was without hope. "I know who they are."

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER'S NOTES:<strong>

Sorry this chapter took me so long to write. My muse was on a leave of absence...

And hopefully you don't hate me for the cliffhangers. They're sort of my thing...

And hey! If you have time, could you review? I live for reviews - I'm a nerd like that.


	9. CH 9

**FOR CLARIFICATION:**

First, I would like to thank RedOak for reviewing in such depth and pointing out the confusions in my story. Without such reviews, I would never improve as a writer.

To clarify, yes, Laura is a total bitch. Most writers end up writing autobiographies, because they can't step outside themselves. I wanted my protagonist to be my opposite. I wanted to find a way to make an unlikable person likable – somehow. And my readers seem to hate Laura, and continue to read – so I succeeded.

Also, let me give you a sequential run-down of how the story unfolded… (Most of this is derived of dialog or narrative in the first couple of chapters, but I can empathize with the confusion.) Laura was a tank, a paladin tank. She possessed lvl 378-397 purple gear, and during certain heroic runs, had picked up a set of healing plate. During a very boring day, and on a whim, she decides to try out healing and fails miserably. The guy at the coffee shop, Mason, is not _necessarily _Smith, although I can see why so many of you are coming to that conclusion/hope. The first time Laura was in a run with Smith, it was simply a pug dungeon. The third time was because he incidentally joined a cross-realm pug raid with a member from Laura's server. Smith knew that and, both intrigued by her unrelenting 'charm' as well as wanting an opportunity to prove his worth as a tank, invited her to join them. Also, the raid is not Twilight Bastion. I had such a clear picture of what I wanted the raid to look like, that I made it up. BECAUSE I CAN! Hehe…

Anyway, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy my cynical tendencies and my contrasting characters. Maybe, in time, they will become as real for you as they are for me.

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER NINE-<strong>

"What do you _mean_, you know who it is?" Cat sounded less than thrilled at Sarah's little revelation.

Under my bed, in the dark, and with burglars making no secret of their invasion, we still felt the need to whisper.

"I know who's at the door!" Sarah whimpered pathetically. "I know what they want!"

"Well, do pray tell!" Irritated, Cat tucked her sleek, black bob behind both ears to better see the look of fear shining from Sarah's doe-brown eyes. The light from my monitor dimmed slightly as my computer prepared to sleep, but I could still see facial expressions, shadowed in worry.

Rather than explaining, Sarah found herself lost in personal hysteria. She began to babble, letting her voice rise with each new partial thought. "It's only been a month. I thought it would take longer… I never thought they'd actually come _here_! I mean, how do they even know where I live?"

"Are you _asking_ us?" Cat hissed.

"This is such a bad idea, Laura!" Sarah was crying now, tears streaming between the freckles on her face. "They'll find us under here, for sure!" she squeaked. "And the police won't make it in time, and I'll never see twenty five, and it was only a small loan!"

"Be quiet!" I hushed her to better hear what was happening with the front door. It seemed to be holding strong, but there was a strange scraping now. They weren't giving up, and Sarah wasn't far from the mark in saying I'd turned us into sitting ducks. "You're right, this is bad."

I clambered out from under the bed, gesturing for them to follow. "We need to find weapons. Come on!"

Sarah crawled out after me; Cat trailed behind with a scowl.

"A small loan?" she thought aloud, trying to piece things together.

We skirted through the apartment like hit-men, looking for anything to use against our possible assailants. You'd think, being in New York, where break-in's were a commonplace occurrence, that we at _least _had a baseball bat – but we didn't. And we didn't have a gun, or mace, or anything useful, except for Sarah's chef knives.

"We can't use those!" she told us. "They cost me two thousand dollars!"

"And your life isn't worth that much?" Cat nearly yelled, grabbing for one.

"Don't use the Santuko. It's my favorite…" Sarah clearly had her priorities confused. She took the knife from Cat and wiped it down before handing back another with a serrated edge. "Better for fighting," she stated, matter of fact.

_Okay…_

Three heads whipped toward the door when the scraping became a shrill sound, adding to the horror of the moment. I envisioned our intruder(s) with little metal tools, trying to pick the lock. But that was stupid. We had a deadbolt…

Adrenaline coursed more frantically through my veins. Both Cat and Sarah looked as though they could each lift and _toss _a small car. And none of us were using our energies to our benefit. As the strain intensified, we started turning on one another in attempt to justify the possible last minutes of our lives.

"This is not happening." Cat swept passed me on her way into the living room where she picked up a poker and tested its weight in her hand. Now with two weapons, she looked a lot like an anime warrior. The only things missing were a set of leather knife sheaths strapped to each of her thighs. "Who _are_ these people? What do they even _want_?"

A very shaky Sarah, looking pathetic and useless, paced between the bar and sofa. "I don't know who they are! But they want money. I owe them money…"

Cat paused, appalled at her childhood friend. "You owe money to people you've never met?"

"Basically."

"_Basically?_" Cat screeched at high volume, not a concern in the world for the fact that loan sharks were listening to us fall apart in here. "How _much_?"

You could almost see Sarah crumble from the inside out as she hunched over the couch, defeated. Her voice was a whisper, barely audible. "Sixty?"

"Sixty." Cat's deadpan expression was perfect. Shock must have been setting in. "Sixty what?"

I was hoping, just as Cat was, that Sarah owed the guys sixty bucks, or even sixty lap-dances. But we both knew the truth.

"Sixty thousand…" Sarah whimpered the two harmless words that might be her detriment, because if the guys outside didn't eventually break in and shoot her in the head, Cat would probably bludgeon her with the poker she wielded.

Barely able to bite out the words, Cat asked tightly, "Sixty… thousand…?" The look on her pinched face was clear – she was hoping to wake from a nightmare at any second. We all were.

The scrape at the door turned into gentle pounding. It shocked us all to glance at the entrance in panic. It interrupted Cat's sleuthing before she could discover what Sarah had bought with that much money. Then the sound stopped.

"Did they…?" I moved toward the door and saw why the scraping had paused and why it was about to get much louder.

Cat was the only one of us not confused. "That's a saw…" She took a step back.

The intruders were working ingeniously, sliding a small electric jig saw between the door and the frame just above the deadbolt. We could see the jagged metal. For one extended moment, where we each just stood staring at it and wondering how much longer we had before they would be inside, it was silent. Too silent. And then the nerve-rattling shriek of metal on metal sounded through the air. Silver dust wafted to the ground.

"HOLY CRAP!" That was Catrina, circling the living room like a caged animal and whispering frantically. "What are we supposed to _do_?"

"I don't know!" I told her, searching through a kitchen drawer for the hammer we'd bought when we moved in. It was the only thing I could think of, and time was running out. "Like I've ever done this! You two are the ones from the wrong side of the tracks! You tell me!"

Sarah wrung her hands and streaked from the room. When she returned, it was with a can of aerosol hair spray. "Would this be good?"

At this point, I was beyond pissed at the girl. My retort came out angry and rude. More rude than usual. "Maybe," I told her. "Have you ever huffed that brand before?"

"That's not funny!" Sarah pulled off the plastic lid, cracking it in the process. She threw it aside and sprayed the air between us in demonstration. "If I get it in their eyes, it'll blind them!"

Fuming, Cat walked back and forth, psyching herself up for a fight – and not with our visitors. "Just because we didn't have chaffers growing up, does _not _mean we came from _wrong side of the tracks_," she told me.

"What?" Between the mix of pens, and notepads, and other miscellaneous crap, my hand finally closed around the smooth wooden handle of a hammer. I pulled it out and quickly slammed the drawer. "You two grew up in the South Bronx!"

"So?" Cat stopped her pacing to glare at me. "That doesn't mean I know what the hell to do right now!" To Sarah, she said, "Get some matches. Hairspray? Matches?"

"Oh, right!" Sarah scuttled frantically into the kitchen.

Cat went back to yelling at me and shaking her poker in my general direction. "You are so fucking judgmental, Laura! Just because we grew up with crime doesn't make us criminals!"

I met Cat in the living room. "Just because I grew up with money doesn't make it _my _fault you had a bad childhood!" I nearly yelled. "And I'm not judging! I'm being honest!"

Cat clenched her teeth together. "Honesty isn't always the best policy."

A saw was currently chipping away at the one thing keeping thugs from getting in and tearing off our arms as a 'warning'. Yet, Cat and I were having a heart to heart. Of course, this might be the only chance we got to finally talk about the issues we'd so far swept under the carpet.

"Look, I'm sorry!" I told her, checking out the back window, looking for police lights in the grid of littered streets. "I'm a bitch with money – you're a hood rat with grit."

"Fuck you, Laura!"

With an eight inch lighter used for lighting fireplaces, Sarah skirted into the living space, begging for us to shut up and concentrate on fighting for our lives. "I couldn't find any matches," she whimpered. "Just this!"

The saw had cut nearly to the end of the deadbolt. Only a sliver of metal remained.

Still, I continued to make my case. "Growing up all coddled and shit isn't always a good thing!"

Cat didn't believe me. She rolled her eyes. "Really? Oh, poor you! All those catered dinners and unlimited shopping sprees!"

Sarah pulled the trigger on the lighter several times before shaking the worthless thing and shouting in frustration. "Frick, Frick, Fucking Shit!" Except for the fact that her expletives sounded like a naughty rendition of a Dr. Seuss book, her interruption went unnoticed.

"I'm serious!" I seethed, whispering as best I could under the stress of fear and anger. "I had money, but no friends! I had stuff, and an easy life, but no mother! You had nothing except for everything that I wanted!" I admitted.

There was a short moment of silence during which the sound of a ringing phone could be heard coming from my bedroom - likely the 911 operator following protocol after being forgotten. As the ringing continued, the last thread of the bolt gave away. The door crashed open with the kick of a large boot, the chain left dangling uselessly. And two very rough men were revealed, one a burly body-builder, the other a skinny version of Chris O'Donnell – probably an apprentice of sorts. The latter looked to have traded waiting tables for a more exciting profession.

Sarah retreated until her back met with the fireplace; Cat tilted up her chin in insolence as the men came toward us. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked.

The burly man laughed. Apparently, he and his little friend weren't afraid of being identified. Neither were wearing masks. "Who the _fuck_ are you?" he retorted in a gravelly voice.

"I'm sorry," Sarah slid between us, making herself a human sacrifice of sorts. "I have your money – it's just not _here_."

"Well then..." The O'Donnell lookalike stepped forward to take over. "We'll just have to break your legs."

"Smart." The burly dude smacked the smaller one in the chest, causing him to double over. "How will she get us the money if she can't walk? Just shut the hell up and watch," he commanded.

All of us obeyed.

"Marcus is waiting," he explained, stepping closer to grab Sarah by the hair. "And Marcus _hates_ waiting. You were supposed to pay up a week ago, and you've been avoiding us. So now the debt is tripled."

By way of salvation, the sound of sirens came up between buildings – the former annoyance was a ringing of hope and joy.

"That's for you," Cat told the man bravely. She really was a hardened bitch from the hood.

Burly guy glanced at his nervous accomplice before he practically chucked Sarah across the room where she landed with a crash against a lamp in the corner. "Three days."

"And then what?" I couldn't help but asking.

He turned on me then, stalking heavily forward, gripping me by the neck with one large hand. His fingers reached clear around to squeeze my windpipe. I was scared not to be able to breath, but grateful to be spared his rancid scent of drugstore aftershave and cigar smoke. "And then?" he said.

"Yeah?" I mouthed sarcastically.

For a second, I imagined he might snap my neck the way he was glaring.

But then he laughed. "And then I won't keep psycho here from breaking whatever the fuck he wants."

I was tossed aside rather hastily as he and his buddy turned toward the front door – I caught myself from falling, and gasped a relieved breath of much-needed air.

From the hallway, all of us heard the same thing. The ding of the elevator opening. In five quick seconds, our intruders would find themselves handcuffed, and Sarah would be explaining her lifestyle.

Sadly, that's not at all what happened. Before us girls could head for cover, three shots were fired, all from the novice cop-in-training. His senior officer hit the deck, and the two thugs broke through our front window and scrambled down the fire-escape.

"Is anyone injured?" Officer Tag hefted his excessive weight off the floor and glared at his aid.

"Not _physically_." Cat was watching Sarah try and right the lamp.

"Fire escape?" Internally, I was bawling. How could we have missed such an obvious solution?

Cat shrugged.

"Who made the call?" Tag wanted to know as he checked a slip of paper, probably a printout from his cruiser.

"That was me," I offered, setting down the hammer and trying not to crack the coffee table in the process. We had enough problems.

"And me." Cat was still staring out the shattered window.

Officer Tag pulled out a pen as though we were doing an interview.

"They're getting away!" I gestured to the window, but nobody seemed to give a shit.

"They're gone," Cat whispered.

"Gone," the aid affirmed.

It wasn't entirely unbelievable that two cops, one of them seasoned, wouldn't try and follow the perpetrators down ten stories of a fire escape. That was only shit you saw in movies. Around here, people either accepted the crime rate, or moved.

We went through the song and dance of answering questions. Of course, most of our responses were vague or flat-out lies. Yes, the guys were wearing masks; no, we didn't know who they were or what they wanted... I didn't need to have lived in the ghetto to understand the dangers of ratting out the mafia, and Sarah didn't need to have grown up in high society to understand the dangers of admitting her illegal banking expedition.

By the time the cops left, it was four in the morning. Our door wouldn't lock, and we had to fashion a cover for the window, but there was little chance the thugs would return. We had three days, after all. Three whole days...

"I'll call the landlord later," Sarah offered, as though that would fix everything. Each of us took up a place on the sectional sofa, exhaustion etched into our faces.

Usually, it was just me who didn't agree with Sarah's ways, but now, after a life-threatening experience, even Catrina was pissed. "Explain," she said.

Sarah took a deep breath and told us how she'd thought the coke would help her work longer, thus creating a larger income. But the drug was expensive. "The first few times I tried it, it was a tip from this guy – Marcus - a regular customer. It helped me get through my shifts, and I had so much energy, I was getting better tips! I thought it could be a solution, that if I made enough extra money, I could start to save up for school. But cocaine is _expensive_, and by the time I realized that fact, I was hooked. So, the next time Marcus came in, he convinced me to sell the stuff. He said that I would make enough extra money, even on top of using, that I could put some away. And the girls at the club are all doing it, anyhow..." She shrugged off the justification. "He gave me thirty k worth... But I ended up using it all!" she finished on an exclamation.

I couldn't believe my ears. "You used thirty grand worth of cocaine? How long ago did he give it to you?"

"Three weeks ago," she answered. Then Sarah did something completely out of character but perfect for the moment. Crying, she crumbled before us, pulling herself into a tight ball in the corner of the sofa.

The pressure had gotten to us all, even me who by this point felt a tad bit sorry for Cat's friend. My friend.

Catrina slid to Sarah's side of the couch and gave her a hug. "It's okay, sweetie. We'll figure this out."

But Sarah had lost all hope. "Ninety thousand!" she cried.

Cat echoed herself, glancing in my direction. "We'll figure this out."

"Oh, no." I finally got her meaning and stood up suddenly. I paced the living room, now filled with the stench of cops and robbers. "I don't have ninety grand! Dad only gives me fifty a month!"

The words were out before I could think twice. I tried retracting them at the looks on both my roommate's faces. "I just mean that it's mostly gone as soon as I get it! I pay rent and utilities. I spend a thousand each month on coffee alone!"

"You spend fifty thousand dollars each month?" Cat asked, appalled.

I shrugged.

"No wonder all you do is play that stupid game!" She got up from the couch and went into the kitchen where she started to boil water for tea. Hopefully decaf.

"Would your dad give you an advance?" Sarah asked while wiping at her puffy eyes.

"Yeah," Cat laughed. "On your _allowance_?"

"Ha ha." Would he, I wondered? "I don't know." To Sarah, I said, "So _now _you want my money?"

"She wants to live," Cat said simply.

A legitimate concern.

* * *

><p>At the stroke at six am, when we'd come up with the solid game plan to beg and plead for my father's sympathy, as well as his money, I drug myself to my bedroom. Sitting on my messy desk was a darkened monitor. I wondered if Smith was asleep. But I was certain I'd worried him. He deserved a note of explanation – or at least a <em>partial <em>explanation. No way in hell would I give all the ridiculous details. He'd think I was a complete head-case.

Being so tired and out of it, I didn't think through the logistics of not being able to communicate across realms. I simply signed onto the game – the motions were second nature now - and noticed the little mail icon, calling out to me.

The note was from Smith's level one warrior alt, asking if I was alive, because how was he gonna go on without my tremendous healing ability?

Apparently, he thought my explanation of a break-in was a joke.

I started my scathing retort when-

**[Smithlol2]** Hey. You okay? I'm assuming yes if you're on…

My heart jumped. He'd started a secondary character just to talk to me? Romance of the twenty-first century, I thought with a roll of my eyes, because I hated to think I might be falling for him...

**[Healslut]** Yeah, I'm fine. Just a random burglary in New York.

Did I just tell an online stranger where I lived? Oh well, it was a big city. Big and dangerous.

**[Smithlol2]** Shit – what happened? You're not hurt, right?

For the next twenty minutes Smith tried to calm my nerves. It was a nice gesture coming from the guy who'd once called me a bitch. In turn, I tried to soothe his. I told him about the break-in, that the guys wanted money, the cops showed up, and that my roommates and I had bonded over the experience. All truth.

**[Healslut]** It's really not a big deal. The landlord will fix our door tomorrow.

**[Smithlol2]** What's wrong with your door?

**[Healslut] **They broke in. They sawed through the deadbolt.

I wrote the sentence like it was something that happened every day, and maybe it did, how would I know?

** [Smithlol2] **That sounds pretty serious.

** [Healslut]** It's not. I'm fine. You waited? Online? This whole time?

** [Smithlol2]** On and off. I was worried…

**[Healslut]** That's weird. But nice…

**[Smithlol2]** Why?

**[Healslut]** Because you don't even know me.

**[Smithlol2]** I know some things about you…

**[Healslut]** Like?

**[Smithlol2]** Like how you never quit? Like how you're not afraid to stand up for yourself. Two very dangerous qualities to have during a robbery.

**[Healslut]** lol – Yeah, I guess.

**[Smithlol2]** I wasn't sure if you were gonna try and be a hero and get yourself shot. So, I just sat here listening to music and hoping you wouldn't end up on the morning news.

**[Healslut] **Might still be on the news…

**[Smithlol2] **heh – I'm just glad you weren't hurt.

**[Healslut] **Me too.

**[Smithlol2]** Or abducted, or something.

**[Healslut]** Or that… Thanks for the seed of fear, though…

**[Smithlol2]** lol – Sorry…

I got a very clear and heartwarming picture in my head of some faceless guy waiting in bed, staring at his laptop, a look of worry across his face. Nobody, except my father, had ever worried about me. It was a sweet moment – or maybe I was just delusional from lack of sleep.

**[Healslut]** What music are you listening to?

**[Smithlol2]** Dragpipe. You heard of 'em?

**[Healslut2]** Noooo… Sounds like Skaw. Not really my thing.

**[Smithlol2]** Skaw? What?

**[Healslut2]** Isn't a drag pipe something skaters use? And don't they all listen to Skaw?

**[Smithlol2]** Maybe. In like 1982. Is that where you are? Harlem in 82'? 'Cause that would make sense – with the robbery and all.

**[Healslut]** Ha ha…

We continued to toss comical banter back and forth. He didn't seem at all concerned, by the time we signed off, that he would have an entire two hours before the workday started. Maybe he had non-conventional hours… I was listing to-do's in my head, including my shift at the bookstore that wouldn't start until a little later, and a phone call to my dad… Not looking forward to either.

**[Smithlol]** Alright, I'll let you go. But seriously, you have to listen to Dragpipe, okay? Fountain of Pain. The lyrics don't make a lot of sense, but the music will make you high.

The claim was a pretty big one, and also very true. As I slipped under the covers, with the sun sending a ribbon of pink to sweep across my room, it was with my headphones streaming a very hypnotic bass line to counter my trepidation. Tomorrow - today - was going to be a bitch.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

My sincerest apologies for the time lapse between updates. Recently, I underwent the very traumatic experience of letting a hairdresser butcher my once-beautiful hip length hair. As a result, I fell into a bit of a slum. And it's very hard to be creative under the blanket of sadness. Anyway - I'm getting over myself and I'm ready to dive back into my writing. Maybe it will help to pass the time until I can look in the mirror again...


	10. CH 10

**-CHAPTER TEN-**

It was a little strange to wake the following afternoon after a fitful morning of rest following my first ever experience with being accosted. At first, the night's events had felt like a dream. One of those nightmares about being chased into a dark alley or free-falling from a cliff. Or one where you make the dire, whimsical mistake of getting your high school boyfriend's name tattooed to your boob. But then, even through the relentless streams of yellow sunshine blazing across my room, reality set in to leave me feeling nervous and afraid.

My whole life I'd been protected, sheltered, spoiled… And now, not only were bad things happening, but I had the distinct feeling that darkness would increase before we saw any glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. It left a metallic taste in my mouth, similar to blood.

I stumbled from bed and trudged to the bathroom with a change of clothes. In the shower, I stood under the hot, steamy water for way too long trying to get rid of a headache now forming at the base of my neck from lack of caffeine. After a salt scrub to wake me up, I dried off and pulled on a pair of dark-wash jeans and a black and grey rocker shirt. Perhaps dressing the part of bad-ass would give me courage for the day. I even wore a bold silver ring and a bunch of black hair ties around my left wrist.

By the time I left the bathroom, it was nearing noon, and I couldn't put off calling Dad any longer. He turned out to be in a meeting, so I was left to pace for twenty minutes in front of a slightly gaping front door before he called me back.

"Hey sweetie, what's up?" Dad always got right to the point. His never wanting to waste precious time on sentiment was likely the reason for my apathy toward, well… everything.

"Hi Dad. Bad time?" I asked, matching his hurried tone.

"Well, we're dealing with another merger today. Poor bastards never like being put out of work." He didn't sound all that sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Good ol' Dad. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.

Now, I knew I couldn't just _tell _him the _truth_. Doing so would evoke a measures of protection including a helicopter rescue that would leave Sarah and Cat on their own. I sighed to buy time for a good lie to materialize. "Actually, I was hoping for an advance on my allowance."

"Advance?" Dad sounded shocked. "Have I taught you nothing about financial management? And aren't you living in the ghettos of New York these days? Should be fairly affordable." His disdain for my living arrangements had never been much of a secret.

"Dad, I don't live in the ghettos," I answered while staring at my broken front window. "It's inner city. And it's _expensive_ here." When your roommate has a coke addiction.

"Mm hmmm," he murmured. "Kid, I don't know anyone who can spend money like you can. I just gave you a raise from twenty five to fifty because I could never swallow all that bullshit about not spoiling your children."

I'd heard this beloved speech before. I loved this speech. "Yep."

He continued. "But you decided you didn't want to work for me here in California. You wanted to stay in New York after graduation. Get a taste of real life. Make your own way. And that's fine. But me giving you six hundred grand a year isn't really supporting your decision."

No, no, no… This was not the direction I'd wanted this conversation to go. "Wait. Are you saying no to the advance?"

"Kid, I'm saying no to the advance," he answered forlornly. "And I'm saying no to future funding of your little Disneyland ride. If you want to be on your own, you gotta _be _on your own. That means finding a job-"

"Actually," I cut him off, "I _did_ find a job."

"Well, that's a step in the right direction! Where at?" he asked.

"Bookstore." My headache was no longer threatening – it was worsening, letting me know I needed coffee bad.

Dad laughed. "Bottom rung, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm not making much money yet. Can't you just give me like two months worth and _then_ take away my allowance? I'm in really hot water here!" I pleaded without any thought to personal pride.

"I don't think so, sweetie. This'll be good for you," he tried convincing me before we got off the phone. "It'll give you grit."

Yeah, grit. That's what I would have between my teeth in two more days, I thought, hanging up.

Sarah was still sleeping; her snoring could be heard from the kitchen where Cat had left me a note to call her at work. After dialing, I cradled my cell in the crook of my neck and fumbled through the fridge for our coffee canister which turned out to be empty.

"Hello?" Cat must have been sitting by the phone waiting for my call. It only took her half a ring to answer.

"Shit." I slammed the canister back onto the shelf and closed the door to the fridge. "Why are we out of coffee?"

"I sold it to pay the loan sharks. It was high end stuff."

"I would know," I answered on a note of sarcasm. "I bought it."

She chuckled.

"So glad you're finding this funny," I growled.

"You talk to your daddy?" she asked. And her teasing name for my father wasn't even supposed to be a joke. It was habit for her to call him that.

"Yeah, bad news," I sighed into the phone, closing my eyes against the throbbing behind them. "I kind of talked him out of giving me money _at all_, let alone early."

"He cut you off?"

"He's backing my decision to live in the real world," I told her with the tone I usually reserve for children. "You know the one – that decision to move in with you and Sarah because I thought it would be _fun_."

"Look, don't be crabby with _me_ just because Daddy finally cut the pseudo umbilical cord."

"What do we do now?" I asked.

After several terse moments, Cat sighed in reply, sounding exhausted. She had about as many ideas as me when it came to solving our dilemma.

Everything felt up in the air, with no possibility for resolution. Well, all but one thing. I knew for certain, if I didn't get caffeine into my bloodstream, I'd be fending a migraine. So, as soon as we hung up, I stuffed my socked feet into a pair of black suede boots and donned my jacket. The last thing I grabbed before heading out was a pocket-sized, spiral notebook and a pen I could click while thinking of a plan to get a fake ID and move to Bangkok.

Outside, the sun blared through intermittent wisps of snow. The streets had been plowed, and I had to step over a foot-high bank of ice and gravel to reach the front doors of the coffee shop. Inside, I stomped my feet and pulled my hood back. The room was only partly crowded today, even considering it was lunch time.

I ordered my usual twenty ounce, caramel, something or other, with an extra shot and found my way to a table against the left wall. Somehow, even knowing my fate of a shattered rib cage in just over forty eight hours, I felt safe here in the coffee shop. The creaking, mismatched dinettes; the windows painted in holiday themes; the lack of overhead lighting during daylight... They were all viable comforts.

Mere minutes after my first sip, the headache began to ebb, leaving a little room for creative power. I opened my notepad and drew tulips on the top right corner, a little frog at the bottom. He was holding a leaf umbrella to fend off rainfall, a metaphor to my predicament.

How serious was the situation, I had to wonder. How powerful were Sarah's new friends? Would they be able to track down my personal information? My location? Not that I would jump ship. All I had was twenty thousand or so, and that wasn't enough to live on for long. I'd be forced to go home to 'Daddy' or get a _real _job. Either choice would dig deep into my time – time needed to game. During my reverie, I'd sketched out a poem:

_The cloud presses downward, enveloping._

_Dust and debris become chaos, desiring._

_I stand and wait for the end, relenting._

_Eyes closed; the rush of wind in my ears._

_Mind closed; the thought of death, no fears._

"A bit morbid, are we?" The voice came from over my shoulder, startling me.

"A bit nosy, are we?" My tendency toward thoughtless retorts preceded any tact I might scrape together. So the biting quip was out before I'd turned to see Mason standing there with a teasing smile and one eyebrow raised in defense. I cringed.

Without asking permission, he took the seat across from me. "No, just curious."

I tried not looking too flattered as I closed my pad of paper. "About me?"

"You're interesting."

"Where did you come from?" I asked, a little perturbed at having been caught off guard. After all, I was facing the doorway.

"I was sitting right over there when you came in." He glanced passed the line of patrons dividing the room, lifted one finger nearly imperceptibly off the table to point.

"So you decided to sneak over here and spy on me?" My challenge was direct, meant to counter the spastic butterflies in my gut. But honestly, I was happy to see him. Happy he thought me worthy to seek out.

"Like I said," he chuckled. "You interest me."

And you interest me, I thought, meeting his steady gaze. On the outskirts of my peripheral, I noticed a Celtic design across the front of his hooded sweatshirt. Also, a dark t-shirt was visible at his neck, and a beanie was pulled down over his head. The sharp blue of his eyes had been washed out by all the black he wore, leaving a soft, intelligent grey.

"Planning to rob a bank?" I had to ask as I took a long drink of my latte which was now the perfect temperature.

He laughed and lounged back, one long leg stretching out far enough to block me from leaving. His black boots were laced backwards so the X's were on the inside. "You know, robbing a bank would probably be less scary."

I scowled at his insinuation. "Then talking to me?"

He laughed again, this time nervously, leaning in and wrapping both hands around the ceramic mug he'd opted for over the typical paper cup. I couldn't help but notice how short his nails were. Either he gave credence to the metro-sexual lifestyle of manicures and facials, or he stressed over everything. Including me. "So, jobless, poet Laura-"

"Not jobless," I interrupted quickly. It bothered me to have him think of me as lazy.

"Oh?"

I relished in the twinkle his eyes offered. "As a matter of fact, I now dust shelves at Barnes and Noble."

"Wow," he laughed and removed his hat, tossing it on the table between us and pulling black hair behind his ears. Bits weren't yet long enough – they fell forward immediately, curling around his temples. And his ears were pierced, not with studs, but plugs. Little black circles of plastic had widened the holes ever so slightly. "So, I guess we won't need to rob that bank after all."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far…" I grumbled under my breath.

His teasing sobered into concern. "Everything alright?"

After leaving my father out of the loop, I couldn't very well tell Mason the truth. In fact, if these drug dealers were the real deal, anyone who knew about them would be in deep shit. "Just having money trouble."

"Even with your prestigious position at the book store?"

My eyes rolled in a circle; I shook my head. "It would take me a lifetime to earn the money I need to pay off in two days."

Mason bit his lip, narrowed his eyes. "How much?"

"Don't worry about it." I tried shrugging off the conversation. "I shouldn't have brought it up. It isn't even my debt. It's my roommate's. She owes some guy money, and he's a little pissed off about it. But it's nothing."

The way in which Mason leaned forward made me feel secluded. As though nobody else around us even mattered. The sound of the brass bell clanging against the glass each time someone opened the front door, the murmur of discussion, the machines foaming milk, were all faded into the background as I stared into Mason's intimidating eyes. "Doesn't sound like nothing," he stated quietly.

I tried pulling together a sarcastic deflection, but nothing came to mind. For the first time ever, I was at a loss for banter. And all I could do was fidget and mutter, "Seriously, not your problem."

"Okay." He drank from his cup not looking away from me. The guy seemed torn between desires.

I changed the subject. "So, why aren't you at work right now?"

"I was up late last night. Too tired to go in this morning." He shrugged as he watched his own finger tracing a circle around the top of his cup. I watched it, too. "Besides, I don't do the whole nine to five thing."

"Oh."

"I do freelance work. So I pretty much get to choose my own hours."

"Right..." At my obvious confusion, he laughed. I could feel the vibration through my palms resting on the table. "No, I get it. You work one job at a time, like an electrician, or something."

"Yeah, like that. Only with less opportunity for electrocution."

"That's always good."

"I think so." He smiled. "Right now I'm re-writing a security system for a company around here."

"Which one?"

"They don't like me to say," he answered with an air of mystery.

My heart skipped a couple of beats. "Sounds sketchy," I joked.

"No, the jobs are straight," was his response. "Getting _into_ my line of work was a little sketchy…"

Listlessly, I picked up his hat and checked the inside. He watched my expression as I noticed the Versace label.

"A twelve hundred dollar ski cap?" I asked dubiously, lifting the soft cashmere to my face and taking in the sweet scents of skin and Pert shampoo. "And your jobs are totally legal?"

"Legal…" It was a whisper, and he seemed to be entranced by my thoughtless action. His eyes glazed over slightly; he bit his lip again, but not with enough force to hold it in place.

After waving my hand in a slow arc between us and watching him refocus, I suddenly realized my social err. "Sorry," I offered, setting the hat back on the table and meeting his heated gaze.

Mason bit his thumb nail, dispelling any qualms I had about his habits of hygiene. But he didn't say anything. Just left the discomfort there between us like a thick fog. My cheeks burned, and it seemed to give him satisfaction because he smiled. Clearing my throat, I drank down the remainder of my latte, now merely a thick stream of salty caramel, and checked the clock above the door. Was it really only one o'clock?

"In a hurry?" he asked.

"I have another half an hour to burn before I have to be at work."

"If you want, I'll take off and leave you to your suicidal poetry." He may have offered, but I could see he didn't want to go. Not yet.

"I'd rather hear more about your shady, and unreliable, employment."

The way he leaned his forehead in his hand and looked up at me was just about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. Some overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss him was trying to take over, but I contained it just in time. It didn't help that he looked to be thinking the same thing. "It's actually pretty reliable. I'm highly sought after."

He wasn't kidding. Only three times seeing him, and I already wanted him. Guardedly, and in a motion to give us distance, I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. "Yeah?"

"I got into a lot of trouble in high school," he began in explanation. His voice was soft and gravely with the memories from his past. "It wasn't keeping my attention, so I found other shit to do. Mostly breaking into websites and databases. Once, I made the mistake of cracking a server linking all the courthouses. I altered a few cases that were going on, thinking it was funny, and ended up getting arrested."

I couldn't respond. The picture of Mason in handcuffs was a little unnerving, and not because I was suddenly scared of him, but rather, even more intrigued. The guy not only looked the part of delinquent – sexy delinquent (sexy delinquent who models for GQ during his parole) – but he had the rap-sheet to justify all the black he wore, the I-don't-give-a-shit hair, and the sarcastic glimmer in his crystalline eyes…

Mason chuckled at the look on my face. "I was a minor. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. I mean, most of the cases I changed were minor offenses."

"Good justification."

"Don't worry, I got what I deserved. The system staved my trial for over six months so they could try me as an adult."

I knew a little about the law. I knew that even at seventeen, if you committed a high-end crime, one that needed planning and intellect, they would assume you were mature enough to take the punishment of an adult. "But it wasn't a violent crime? Why would they do that?"

"You'd be surprised what the government allows themselves to get away with." He sat up in his chair again, finished what looked to be a mocha, and offered an easy smile as though he wasn't at all perturbed by his past. "No worries, I was out in eighteen months, and companies all across the country were begging me to work for them. Test out their security systems to see if I could break in. It's pretty lucrative."

"Wow," was all I could come up with as I watched him pick at the callouses gracing the fingertips of his right hand.

"Does that bother you?" His words sounded far away as I thought about Sarah and her drug addiction, Catrina and her sudden dependency on me, a broken front window...

"Not at all," I answered, because I had very little room to judge.

* * *

><p>My day was supposed to go like this: Fret about money, call Dad, get money wired, have coffee, go to work, go home, drink wine, play game. So far, nothing was going the way I'd hoped for, and one thing was going better.<p>

Mason insisted on walking me to work, and by the time I'd ended my grueling four-hour session with little miss control freak Jen, he was waiting to walk me home. As soon as I came out the front doors, coat zipped up tight against the wind, I could see him waiting with hands in his pockets, the bottom of his right foot resting against the brick at his back. He seemed to be concentrating on the stream of cars passing through the grey of dusk.

"Hey again," I called, approaching hesitantly, because there was a _chance _he wasn't waiting for me, after all. Maybe he was waiting for someone else.

But he smiled shyly. "I'm not stalking you. I promise."

Unable to contain myself, I laughed. He couldn't know the reason, and I didn't inform him. "Maybe I like stalkers," was all I said

He offered a quirky, sideways glance. We started in the direction of my apartment building, me slightly in the lead. Every few feet we walked through a cone of white light from the streetlights.

"Maybe this is your way of finding out where I live…" I said, only half joking. The prior day had left me even more pessimistic about people.

"Actually," he paused as a bus splashed loudly passed us. "I have your first name and a basic physical description. I wouldn't need much more to find your address."

"No way." I shook my head, disbelieving his claim.

"True story – but I wouldn't." He kicked a soda can that was in our way. "I was just thinking about the money your roommate owes, and…" He trailed off and shrugged. For a guy who'd only met me twice, he was a little overprotective, but I didn't mind.

"You worried?" I asked him.

"Maybe."

The little butterflies came alive again. I was supposed to go home and argue with Cat and Sarah about who was first to work the streets. (I mean, Cat has the business savvy, but Sarah has the experience...) Then I had a date with the game, microphone and all… Still, here I was, letting a very sweet, very mysterious, very _attractive _guy walk me home. A guy who made a ton of money and chose his own hours... What was a girl to do?

"Well, I was a little worried." He smiled down at me. "But I was a lot bored."

"Oh, yeah?" I laughed. "So glad I could fill that little void."

We joked, and teased, and grew even more comfortable in each others' company. Soon we were stepping out of the elevator leading to my tenth floor apartment. The sound of fighting came through my open front door, because Craig, the manager, was fixing the deadbolt.

"Laura, Laura," he muttered, shaking his head from side to side. "This is trouble, I tell you. And we talked about this when you moved in. I said to myself, these are nice girls! Not girls that cause trouble!"

"Yeah, Craig." Even though I was only _barely _above five feet, I could meet him eye for eye. He was a little, balding Italian who used a lot of hand motions whenever he talked. "Sorry. Won't happen again."

Hopefully.

Mason was eying us both with confusion.

Craig went on - even though Cat was inside shouting about loan sharks and bleeding to death. "I just don't want to see anybody getting hurt now," he told me.

Mason whispered, "Loan sharks?"

"Yeah, that's the part of the story I left out earlier," I answered in a sheepish whisper of my own. "You might as well come on in…"

I led the way through the half-open door. We emerged onto a scene where Cat was trying to open a bottle of wine, and Sarah was crying.

"Hey guys!" I offered with sarcastic cheer.

"Fuck!" The cork broke off half way, angering Cat. But as soon as she saw Mason, she changed her tone. "Why, hello..."

I could tell by the look on her face what she was thinking, that he was her soul mate. Both Cat and Mason were decked out in all-black, but the former was more goth, the latter punk.

Mason removed his hat and wiped his feet on the mat that ironically claimed our neighbors had better stuff.

"I'm Sarah," Sarah whimpered before slouching down into the couch.

"Cat. Wanna glass of wine?" Cat asked him. "I wish we had something stronger, like crack or morphine…"

Mason looked around with uncertainty. "I'm Mason. Mason S-"

"Is this her second bottle?" I asked Sarah, thereby interrupting the rest of Mason's cordial introduction.

"I hope not. She just got home."

"We're having a bad day," I explained, going to help Cat de-cork her Merlot before she flat out broke the bottle against the counter and drank from jagged glass.

After downing the first half of her ten ounces, Cat waved a sloshing wine glass at the room. "Well, this is great. Really, truly fantastic. Now _Mason_ knows. Not that I have anything against you, Mase. You seem like a nice enough guy. It's just… Are you cheating on your game?" she asked, turning back to me. The wine was already going to her head.

"Not really the time, Cat," I warned. Telling Mason about my addiction to online role playing was not on the top of my list.

"She has this thing with Craft World," Cat expounded to both mine and Mason's bewilderment. We were each confused but for different reasons.

Craig poked his head into the entryway before I could explain. "So, I have you all fixed up here with new locks." He lumbered over and set two keys on the counter. "You're gonna have to get a third key made, but you can take it outa the rent. And I know this guy who does windows. Will one of you girls be here tomorrow?"

Teary-eyed Sarah said that she had nothing to do; Craig left, but not before offering a warning for us not to _let _people break in anymore.

"Oh sure," Cat laughed. "We'll give it our best shot. Even though the first time was so much fun!"

"You had a break in…?" Mason was staring at the front window with a strange look on his face. It was weird enough that he was even here, let alone finding out all our little, dark secrets.

I tried to brush aside his concern. "It happens in New York all the time."

"When?" he asked.

"Uh…" When does it happen? Or when did it happen to _us_? And how much information was too much?

"Last night," Cat answered, finishing her glass of wine. "Two guys actually sawed through the locks."

"Really?"His look of confusion cleared up instantly. Maybe he'd seen it in the news. "Wow, last night?"

"Well, this morning," Cat went on, re-filling her glass. "By the way," she tossed me a plastic bag, "I went shopping and got you those. But don't leave 'em open. They'll dry out," she warned on her way to the sofa.

I glanced at the label on the snack bag. "But they're _dried_ bananas."

"You know what I mean," she said. "They'll get _stale_. But they were the closest thing to real food that tastes like candy, so I knew you'd eat them. We can't have you dying when you're our only way to pay the thugs!"

"Okay… Mason's leaving now." I dragged him back toward the entrance to keep him from hearing any more of Cat's tactless sharing. Outside, I gave him my best 'surprise!' expression. "Yeah, my life is a total mess right now. I shouldn't have brought you up here."

He followed me over to the elevator, but made no move to press the down arrow. Instead, he pushed his hands farther into the pocket of his sweatshirt and looked down at me with curiosity. Maybe he was trying to figure me out. Finally, he spoke through the silence. "Which roommate owes the money?"

"Uh…" I faltered. "I don't know how much you should be aware of. This might be a pretty serious situation, and I don't wanna drag you into it."

"I get it."

"But if I end up in prison for say, robbing a bank, you can come and visit me, right?" I asked. "Give me some tips?"

Mason chuckled at my dark humor. "Don't lose your cup."

"My cup?"

"Precious commodity. You only get one."

I laughed even though it wasn't really all that funny to think that the best place I could end up would be prison. "It's more likely, you'll be visiting my grave stone."

"Don't say that."

Sighing, I pressed the arrow pointing down, lighting it up. "Just kidding. I'm making this out to be something much bigger than it actually is."

Mason took a small step forward and looked down at his feet. Or my feet. His scent wafted toward me, something dark and spicy. "Are you?"

"Yes. Absolutely." Splaying my hands, I nodded. "They're just a couple of typical New York vandals who want their money. They acted all tough, doing shit they saw in the movies. But honestly, if they were serious thugs, we would already be deep in salt water by now."

Mason's look softened.

"Seriously," I assured him further. Just then, the elevator doors slid open. I threw my foot on the track to keep them from closing.

"You coming with me?" Not only did he smile, he winked.

I almost passed out. "Uh, no uh… I just."

"Not that I would mind."

Blushing profusely, I explained how the elevator only gave you about three fourths of a second to get in before the doors slammed shut with enough force to take off a finger. "Craig was supposed to have it fixed, but…"

He looked to want to say something, or _not_ want to say something. "How about if I give you my number? I'm renting about four blocks from here. If anything happens, you can call me, okay?"

"Alright." I pulled my pad of paper out from the inner pocket of my coat, the pen from another pocket.

When he held the notepad against the wall and started writing, my earlier suspicions were confirmed. "You're left handed," I told him.

"Yeah, I noticed," he teased, handing back the pen.

In that instance, I took his hand and touched the tips of his fingers, one by one. "And you play guitar," I mentioned, not in question.

"Yeah, I do." Mason's answer came out a rasp. "How'd you know?"

"Callouses. They were the reason I quit guitar lessons when I was ten." I let his hand drop to his side, looked up. Sighed. "Sorry about today. You must be really shocked by all this." I waved toward my front door.

He shrugged before stepping into the elevator and turning to face me. His parting words left me warm and confused. "I already knew about your life of danger," he told me with beautiful, narrowed eyes. "It's what drew me in."

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

So, for those of you still reading - what are your thoughts? Aside from, _Get your lazy ass in line, Jules, and finish this friggin' story!'_


	11. CH 11

**-CHAPTER ELEVEN-**

I stood outside the closed elevator for well over five minutes just staring at scratched and dented steel doors. I wondered about the oddities of a life that tosses you both fortune and misfortune in equal measure. On the one hand, I might soon be embarking on a near death experience – or just a _death _experience – but on the other hand, I seem to have found, in Mason, a kindred spirit. One who shared my obvious lack of deference to social tedium but who secretly desired friendship. And with me…

I smiled to myself, because not many people in this life ever 'got' me the way Mason did. Our time together had somehow softened my fears, set me on a high of expectation.

Finally, the shouting within my apartment grew to a disturbing volume, pulling me from my dumbfounded reflection. With a valuable number clutched securely in my hand, I slipped back inside and closed the door behind me, locked it noisily. Cat and Sarah's yelling didn't even pause at the sound of my entrance. The former sat cross-legged in the living room at the perfect angle to glare toward the latter who had taken refuge in the kitchen. Both of them were red in the face – one from anger, the other from the exorbitant amounts of crying she had been doing.

"You can't just _not_ go to work!" Cat announced, rather loudly, from her place on the sofa. "What if you're missing out on the tip of a lifetime? Maybe some spoiled millionaire kid will be there tonight!"

"Handing out ninety thousand dollar tips?" Sarah was kneeling on the counter and rummaging desperately through the cupboard for a can of organic clove powder and raw cane sugar. When she emerged with her treasures, her incredulous face was so red and blotchy even her freckles had morphed into tender, red dots across her cheeks. "Unlikely."

I slipped out of my coat, thought better of pissing Catrina off further, and hung it on the rack before asking Sarah what the hell she thought she was doing. "You're skipping out on work? What the frick? _You _got us _in_ this mess, and now you're just gonna quit?"

"I'm not quitting," Sarah grumbled, jumping to the floor. Her voice was filled with all the same hopelessness she expressed in the slump of her shoulders.

"Not making an effort… is _quitting_," answered Cat.

Sarah, her eyes glittering with fresh anxiety, replied, "What's the use? There's no way I can make enough money to pay these guys! Might as well enjoy my last two nights alive…" Frustrated, either with the situation or the tears, she swiped at her cheeks, leaving a trace of flour under one eye.

"So, what now? We just wait around to be dismembered?" Cat snorted. "Because I can think of a hundred different ways to handle this – all of them including a wig and a change of address form."

"A change of address form might be counterproductive," I informed the both of them with a roll of my eyes.

Sarah pulled a large bowl from another cupboard, gathered a wooden spoon. Tediously, she measured flour and baking powder into the bowl. I watched as her hand shook a little. She seemed to be trying very hard to keep it together. "It wouldn't matter. We can't hide from these guys. It's not like they're teenagers. It's not like their inexperienced, gangster wannabees. This is real."

"A true New York experience," Cat muttered, slumping forlornly into the sofa and pouring what was left of her bottle of wine into an empty glass.

Silence fell just then, eclipsing the conversation. Our ability to transfer the blame had dwindled, our bank of ideas had been expended. None of us had the energy to fight. Instead, Cat went back to crocheting what looked to be a skull-shaped pot holder, Sarah went back to her baking, and I leaned over the counter and opened my notepad to see what Mason had written.

His penmanship was in all capitals, nice and neat. I traced the letters and numbers with a slow finger, remembering his concern. It was a simple message. His first name and ten distinct digits followed by a notation.

'_I'll think of you._'

The words were direct and kind, not too desperate. I blushed reading them over and over again. He would think of me? _What_ would he think of me? He'd told me that I was a little scary, and also that it was the danger of my life that had drawn him in…

I wondered.

For my entire existence, the only danger I'd experienced was getting rained on during my walk from Dad's mansion to a waiting limo, or learning my five hundred dollar an hour stylist stopped doing house calls. Money had always just _been _there - in mounds. And because I'd had so much, it was never a thing to think about, let alone _worry _over. Now, suddenly I understood why people seek it so desperately, why they hoard it, and protect it, and commit crimes because of it…

It held little in the way of importance next to the people in my life, yet it was the most important thing, because having it would mean a continued life with those people. Not having it would mean the plausibility of never getting to see Mason again, or learning who Smith really is… Odd how, in a day, in a single moment, I could go from thinking that things were unimportant because they were easily replaced, to thinking that things were unimportant because they were only things. Just clutter.

Clutter.

Suddenly, my back straightened. Mason's writing blurred. All this time I'd been focused on the actual dollars – getting ninety thousand in its paper form – when _items_, the clutter I suddenly hated, could be sold for a similar value. But did I own anything worth that much? My investing hadn't been in bonds, but in services. Getting a massage, a pedicure, or seeking entertainment. Nothing that I could sell. Except…

From somewhere in the distance, a voice brought me back to the moment. "…sure your dad can't help out? Even if we promise to pay him back?"

I laughed at Sarah who was stirring salt into the flour mixture a little too vigorously. Her eyes were unblinking. "And trade one debt for another?" I responded with my own question, still dazed from the idea forming at the back of my mind.

"At least daddy won't try and rip off our legs if we falter on a payment," Cat chuckled.

I clicked my tongue, shook my head. "I wouldn't count on that…" I loved my father, but he was pure business, after all.

The next silence was heavily laden with nervous desperation. Cat meandered back to the counter and took a seat on one of the bar-stools to better reach her bottles of wine. I had to wonder when she would forgo the glass completely. Sarah finished mixing her ingredients and started to dot a pan with what would soon be chocolate-chip cookies – Cat's favorite. Even I could see what she was doing. Her baking was an attempt to calm both her and Cat's nerves. But it wasn't yet working. And soon the silence was littered with more bickering. It was ironic that Cat could yell at Sarah for her addiction while completely intoxicated. But I felt both of their pain – literally. They were hurting my ears.

"ENOUGH!" Holding up both hands to protect myself from the flying emotional shrapnel, I begged for them to, "Just calm down, would you? I might be able to…"

Should I tell them I had a way out of this mess? It wasn't a sure thing – I would need to do some checking before I would know how much money it was worth.

"Might what?" Sarah asked with a tinge of hope in her voice.

I sighed before finishing my thought. "I might have a way to pay these guys. Maybe," I added to keep them from dancing around with joy.

"How?" Cat's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Unlike Sarah, she wasn't one to count her eggs.

The clock on the stove only gave me twenty minutes before game time. I was due to meet Smith online… Butterflies tumbled around my stomach. "I'm still working out the details. I don't know if it'll work…"

"Well," Cat tried convincing me, "Tell us, and we'll help you figure it out."

"It would take too long." I opened the fridge – nothing much to eat.

Cat snorted derision. "Why? You have a hot date?"

"No." I scowled.

"Speaking of…" Leaning over the counter, Cat smiled conspiratorially. "_Who _is _Mason_?" she asked slowly.

I rolled my eyes. "Just some guy."

"You're telling me," Sarah mentioned, sliding a tray of cookie dough into the oven. She tossed her mitts on the counter and looked at me sideways. "I see a lot of men, but none like him."

"What is _that _supposed to mean?" I asked her. The cupboards were also mostly empty. I resorted to snacking on the banana chips Cat had gotten me. They weren't all bad.

"It _means_," Cat answered, "That he's _hot_. Didn't you notice?"

I tried to shrug off the conversation but found myself readjusting my pony-tail and fidgeting a little under my roommates' pointed stares. "Yeah, okay. I noticed… But it's nothing special." Even _I_ didn't believe that it wasn't special. But it wasn't a romance I was seeking. Not really. There was something different, _electrical_, about the connections I'd made with not only Mason, but Smith as well. Oddly – a similar electric connection I couldn't explain. "We just met at the coffee shop across the street."

After taking down the last drops from her glass, Cat considered the other bottles on the counter. One a Syrah, two red blends, another Cabernet. Her preference was for red wine – and tonight, so was mine. "That's Karma for you," she uttered on a slur.

"Meaning?" I found a clean glass, not a wine glass. I hated those stupid, fragile glasses. Who in their right mind thought they were a good idea, anyway? Yeah, I know you're intoxicated, so here's this ultra-breakable glass to drink from. Was it a joke?

Cat opened a new bottle and filled my water glass with the thick, grape-y liquid. "All those times," she offered dreamily, "You would go down there for my coffee, pay for it and everything. Never expect payment. Now Karma is handing you a reward."

"I don't believe in Karma." But I did believe in Sangria. I found orange juice and tainted my wine with a splash.

"Then call it Kismet," Catrina told me.

"Same thing." Same mindless cop out, I thought.

Sarah checked on her cookies. "Or fate."

By then, it was seven fifty. The prospect of redemption had left my roommates in a calm, nearly cheerful, mood. Neither pressed me further as to _what _I had planned to save our asses; they simply trusted.

I took my glass and banana chips with me toward the back bedrooms. "All those words mean the same thing," I offered in parting. "That basically _nothing_ is within our control."

And I would never let that be true.

In the quiet of my room, I could actually hear my heart pounding vigorously in my chest. In mere moments, I would be giving it my last shot at healing a raid I'd seen only once. And it would be alongside people whose voices would make them real to me – individuals – no longer just characters bouncing around my screen. But that wasn't the cause of my nervousness. There was something worse on my head.

Indecision.

Either I'd just lied to my roommates, or I'd be going through with the most difficult decision of my life. We were coming down to final resorts, and I'd thought of one. But it would mean sacrifice – something I wasn't quite used to…

Hastily, I set my glass, banana chips, and notebook next to my monitor. I signed onto the game and felt a twinge of excitement join the dread in my chest at what I was about to do.

On the top shelf of my closet was a velvet chest, its contents saved but never seen. Perched on the edge of my bed, I opened it and sucked in my breath - let the heart-retching pain wash over me in the low light. All those years, I'd kept this little treasure hidden away – unwilling to part with it – unwilling to look at it.

The memory.

Parting with the item, meant parting with the memory. But it also meant saving a couple of lives… Including my own.

_La-deep_

A private message was at the bottom of my screen – Sword inviting me to the raid group with a little extra incentive – if I didn't hurry, they'd find someone else. I stashed the chest, telling myself I would deal with it later and accepted invite.

Here goes nothing, I thought, putting on my headset and preparing to hear Smith's voice. The first, second, and third sips of sangria did nothing to qualm my restlessness as Merdok gave us his Vent account information. Eight familiar names popped into the program, one by one, mine included. I took a fourth sip of wine to settle the quivering of my fingers, and held my breath to hear the beginnings of the conversation.

The first person to speak was obviously Sword, who would prove even more vocal than usual without the restraint of having to type. "I only have like, two hours before the folks get home. They're at some stupid parent teacher meeting, which means when they get back, I prolly won't have a computer." His voice was oddly low and gravely, as though his vocal cords might be confused about his age and maturity.

Someone answered with, "I see you upgraded your helm to leather, kid. You're halfway there."

"Don't fucking call me kid," Sword answered with annoyance, adding a little tension over the line. "But yeah, I found this in a pug raid this morning before school. You jealous?"

Easy laughter. "Naw. This is Zek, by the way." He was older – maybe in his thirties. And his own voice was softly assured of himself. It fit with the confidence necessary to roll a female character.

More voices gave their introductions. Some were polite, others, less-so.

Unsurprisingly, as Cashé joined in, I noted that she was British. Her proper, elegant speech contrasted horribly with her insistent ego. She bitched about the time, the fact that Martin was _making_ her play again, and then went on to insult the rest of our abilities.

She was ignored.

Mostly.

"Don't mind her – she's had a long day." That baritone was undoubtedly Martin's as he tried to smooth the ripples his wife was making.

"And you had nothin' to do with my long day, did you?" Cashé again. "And don' tell 'em abou' our life."

Zekari. "So, do we need to do a little marriage counseling before we start?"

"My parents are in marriage counseling," a very young, slightly feminine male voice piped up. Obviously Catabolizer, our warlock. "And it's not because of me. I swear."

Zek chuckled. "Vent was a bad idea."

"Could we just – fucking – get – this – going? Seriously?" Sword annunciated each of his words for the rest of us going at a normal pace. "This might be my last raid _ever_."

Still, Smith hadn't spoken.

And either had I.

We entered the dungeon like an army of misfit hopefuls. A strange calm overcame me as I was pulled into the electric world of elementals and cracking cemented walls. My room disappeared, and I became Heals – without dysfunctional roommates, indecision, or worry about tomorrow. For the moment, I was safe in my mail armor…

Merdok started giving orders, reminding us all about the first boss and what we needed to do. Also, what we needed _not _to do. "Catabolizer, could you put away your imp. We don't need a repeat of yesterday."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" the pre-pubescent voice mocked. His imp disappeared off the screen. "You make one friggin' little mistake, and-"

Merdok interrupted him. "Cashé and I will tank. Nobody pull 'em off – not that you'll be able to with her agro."

"Bloody right," the bitch added.

**[Firenice] **FYI guys – I don't have Vent or a microphone, so I'll just type if that's alright!

"Are you asking our permission?" Zek inquired dryly.

**[Firenice] **Umm, well, just trying to be polite

**[Záp]** I don't have Vent either.

As far as I knew, that was the first we'd heard from our ultra-reserved Shaman.

"You could download it real fast," Catabolizer offered.

**[Záp]** Yeah – I _could_.

Which was his way of saying he wasn't going to.

Sword joined in with a loud sigh. "We don't have TIME!"

Martin chuckled, his voice was easy to pick out, as low as it was. "Yeah, Sword needs that helm he'll probably not be using until he graduates."

"At twenty," Zek added.

"Funny." From the sound of Swords voice, he wasn't in agreement with the comment he made.

Merdok started in with his instructions, the leader symbol, usually gracing Smith's icon, now nestled over his name. I was concentrating so hard on the reason behind the change, I didn't hear my voice spoken the first time.

"Heals, are you with us?" Merdok was asking. "We need you on your toes."

Fumbling slightly, I found the control key and held it down while I spoke. "Yeah, I'm here."

Silence.

Then Sword, shocked, asked, "Seriously? You're a chick?"

"What?" I asked.

"I just thought that, since you suck so bad at healing, that maybe you were a guy, is all," he responded as though it were no big deal to admit he'd noticed my lack of femininity.

Along with several others. Martin, Zek, and Zap all added that they'd thought the same thing about me.

Angrily, and with little idea as to how they'd all come to that conclusion, I pushed my control key. "No – I'm a girl. Got all the parts."

Laughter. From several people. Including Sword. "Don't get your panties all in a bunch. It was an easy fuckin' mistake."

"How-" I began, but Merdok cut me off.

"Alright, now that that's all settled, how about we buff up and do this."

Fuming, I drank down the last of my Sangria in one long gulp. Maybe I would buff them, maybe I wouldn't.

My door opened to let in a warm scent. "Hey, you want some?" Sarah entered respectfully, still walking on metaphorical egg-shells. She offered a small plate of cookies.

"Yeah," I answered, distractedly. "Thanks."

With care, she set the treats on my cluttered desk, pushing aside wrappers and stacks of books to find enough room. "I uh… I know you're busy, but…"

Finally, I clicked a few buttons, buffing my group and giving them extra armor, so I would have a better chance at keeping them alive. "Just say it, Sarah." I knew she needed me to be gentle, but I didn't have the time, nor was I in the mood to hold her hand and whisper sweet nothings right now.

"Okay." Sarah took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say thanks. I mean, we haven't always-"

A private message appeared at the bottom of my screen. From Smith.

"-gotten along. But I respect what you're doing – trying to help me. And I appreciate-"

"Uh-huh…" I murmured, reading Smith's message.

**[Smithlol] **Hey, sexy.

A greeting to make anyone blush.

**[Healslut] **Uh, hey.

"-it more than… Look, I'm just wondering-"

**[Smithlol]** You miss me?

I choked on my bite of cookie, sucking in a few crumbs.

Sarah patted my back and glanced into my empty wine glass. "I'll get you a drink. More wine?" As soon as she caught sight of my emphatic nod, she headed from the room.

**[Smithlol]** I'll take your silence as a yes.

Finally, my eyes stopped tearing enough for me to compose a reply.

**[Healslut]** Whatever! Your ego could fill a warehouse.

**[Smithlol]** And she deflects the question.

Rendered speechless by his honest teasing, I sat and read the conversation again, unsure of how to respond. It was hard to know how to answer when you weren't certain of what was being asked of you. Either he really did want me to miss him, or he was making fun of me. I decided to play it safe.

**[Healslut]** No. I didn't _miss _you. I didn't have _time _to miss you.

**[Smithlol]** Spending time with someone else?

Before I could make head or tails of that particular accusation, Sarah was back with more wine she'd so kindly mixed with orange juice. Frazzled by Smith and his insinuation, I gladly took the glass and drank it down a little too fast.

Sarah watched me with a concerned expression. "Better?"

"Yeah, thanks. And the cookies are awesome," I choked out by way of dismissing her.

But she wasn't done. "Anyway, as I was saying…"

Her words blended into the sounds of rushing blood behind my ears. I thought about Smith and his apparent jealousy, or was it baiting? And why hadn't he spoken out loud? What could he possibly be hiding?

**[Healslut] **Why aren't you talking on the channel?

**[Smithlol] **This is kind of personal for group chat. But if you'd like to profess your undying love to me over Vent…

"-do you think this plan you have-"

**[Healslut]** *rolls eyes*

"-well-"

**[Smithlol]** You're even adorable online.

I'd been about to offer a few scathing insinuations of my own about his possible elevated age, or weight, or how maybe he was really a girl. But none of that mattered. Because now I was wondering what he meant by 'even adorable online'. What other possible way could I be adorable to someone I'd never known in real life?

**[Healslut]** What does that mean?

**[Smithlol]** Nevermind.

Humph.

**[Healslut]** And he deflects the question.

Oblivious to my game playing, or my fear of being stalked, Sarah continued to ramble on. "Do you think it'll work? I mean, do we have a real chance at getting out of this?"

"Getting out of what?" I asked her, irritated.

The group had decided to move forward, even though a few of us were paying little attention. Catabolizer had stepped away from his computer for some Cool aid, or whatever, and Smith was still standing near the entrance, ten or so yards away from the rest of us. Still, Merdok marked two targets for crowd control and one for off-tanking. The main guy we were going after had a loud, white skull above his head, marking him for instant death.

The group surged forward like peasants in battle over taxes, or some other relevant cause, except that we were fighting for intangible gold and items.

Clutter.

The look on Sarah's face was clear in my peripheral. The colors of my screen were reflected within her mesmerized eyes as they opened wide, little lights dancing on her pupils. "So, this is that game you love. No wonder you're addicted."

In one way, we were a lot alike – prone to addiction. "Yeah. And yeah, the plan will work."

With effort, she pulled her gaze from where we'd just killed the last guy in the group. Everyone took a moment to gather life. Sarah spoke. "Really?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I'd made my decision to sell the jewelry. No more useless clutter. Meaningless stuff. I swallowed. "Don't worry."

Sarah gave me a grin and a tight, unexpected hug, almost knocking me to the floor.

I patted her back. "Alright…" Physical contact wasn't really my thing.

"I'm going to work!" She told me, skirting from the room. "See you tomorrow!"

"Yeah," I muttered to myself. "You do that."

We killed the final three groups with little effort and even less talking. Except for the couple of times Sword yelled at us to get out of his room.

"Dude," Zek told him, "Say no to drugs."

"Not you guys," Sword informed us idiots. "My sister. Seriously, if you don't get out-"

"Then what?" It was a little girl's voice in the background. "You'll tell mom and dad that I was interrupting you playing your _game_. I don't _think _so," she taunted.

Everyone heard a door slam and grunge metal start to play lightly in the background. Obviously Sword had his microphone set to stay on continually, but nobody complained.

**[Firenice] **This is awesome! Only twenty minutes in and already at the first boss!

**[Záp]** Yeah. Two days per boss. New record!

Merdok's game plan was for he and Cashé to tank, the rest of us to kill and heal. No biggie. Since all the adds had been taken out in the correct order, all we had left in this room was the boss. And he was dead in five minutes flat.

At the second boss, just fifteen minutes later, we got the helm Sword had been looking for. He rolled need, replaced the useless leather one he'd been wearing, and started dancing around in what looked to be an awkward, erotic version of the Macarena. "Alright, I'm out." he said.

**[Smithlol] **He better not ditch after getting what he wanted.

**[Healslut]** Why don't you tell him that?

**[Smithlol]** Headset's not working.

A little relief replaced my dread that he was some weirdo, trying to hide his true voice.

**[Healslut]** Ah. Cause I was worried you might have a tracheotomy from fifty years of smoking.

**[Smithlol]** lol - You think I have something to hide?

**[Healslut]** Do you?

**[Smithlol] **Everything I told you about myself is absolutely true. I'm twenty four, I work in programming, I have a place in upstate, and my headset is currently useless. And even though I never actually said it – I am a dude. I have all the parts.

**[Healslut]** Oh, hilarious.

My comment was another deflection. I was good at deflecting – perhaps even better than my own father who taught me.

**[Smithlol]** Do you believe me?

**[Healslut]** Yeah, why not?

**[Smithlol]** Do you ever just answer the question?

No.

**[Healslut]** What did you mean when you said I was EVEN adorable online?

There was a long pause in which I rebuffed the group and paid a little attention to the banter over the channel. Fire had gotten some magnificent piece of armor that was the completion of his perfect life. Catabolizer took another potty break before asking Sword for advice on girls. Martin and Cashé were at each other's throats because he had to resurrect her for the third time. Plus, their baby was teething.

**[Smithlol]** I just meant that you must be pretty cute in real life for it to come across in chat. That's all. Didn't mean to scare you.

**[Healslut]** I don't get scared.

**[Smithlol]** I believe you.

Which was what people said when they didn't.

For the duration of the raid, everyone got along well enough. We finished off the final boss without a hiccup, retrieved our winnings, and wished each other well.

"That was a great run, guys," Sword allowed with a hint at a smile in his tone. "And great job, Heals. You did pretty good tonight – for a girl."

"Thanks, Sword. I'll take that as a compliment."

**[Smithlol] **Wow.

**[Healslut]** What?

The group signed off, leaving Smith and I alone. We were always the last two to leave.

**[Smithlol] **Just your voice. It's amazing.

His comment left my cheeks tinged with a blush of discomfort, but my usual sarcastic vibe was waning, and I had nothing good to retort with - I couldn't decide how I felt. People fell for each other all the time – and lots of those times were over the internet. It shouldn't matter what a person looked like, or what they sounded like, or smelled like. The core of an individual, the truly important qualities, resided in the heart. And from the heart - the mind - comes forth thought and speech. Probably, I knew Smith better than I knew Mason.

Still, flirting with him felt like cheating.

**[Healslut]** Thanks. I gotta go.

**[Smithlol]** Did I make you mad?

**[Healslut]** No…

What was I supposed to do? I liked Smith – a lot. I liked his humorous whit, his ability to lead, even his ego was attractive. But in real life, Mason had given me his number and told me he would be thinking about me. I couldn't betray that.

**[Healslut]** This was fun. And it was cool talking to you.

**[Smithlol]** But?

Silence.

**[Smithlol] **You don't like me. I understand.

**[Healslut]** No that's not it at all.

As much as it dinged my pride, I couldn't lie. But I was a one guy gal, and I couldn't get Mason out of my head.

**[Smithlol] **But you have a boyfriend.

**[Healslut]** Not really – not a boyfriend…

**[Smithlol] **A girlfriend?

At that, I actually laughed out loud.

**[Healslut]** You wish.

**[Smithlol] **Naw… I think that shit is weird.

It would have been easier for me to drop Smith if he could turn a few degrees toward the asshole he'd been in the beginning. I thought about trying to piss him off, the good ol' 'make him dump you so you don't have to dump him' method. But I wasn't twelve anymore.

**[Healslut] **Look, I don't have a boyfriend. And I really do like you – for whatever strange reason. But I have to be honest. There _might _be someone else, and I don't think it would be fair to him if I was flirting with anyone else. Even online. You know?

**[Smithlol] **Yeah, Heals. I get it. I understand.

I felt hurt, like crying even. It was an odd sensation – sentimental regret, hot at the back of my eyes.

**[Healslut]** I'm sorry.

My door slammed open then – Cat was giggling behind me. "Oooh, sorry! That door looked a lot heavier! Or maybe I'm stronger when I'm drunk… Do you think people get adrenaline rushes from alcohol?"

"I don't know, Cat," I murmured, still concentrating hard on Smith. I wondered, momentarily, what he might look like, sound like… I wondered if I was making a mistake.

**[Smithlol] **So, I guess this is it, huh? No more talking?

My fingers were shaking, indexes over the home keys of my keyboard. Catrina was informing me how drunk she was in case I hadn't noticed. Smith was waiting.

**[Healslut]** Yeah.

It was all I could answer with.

**[Smithlol] **Good luck with that burglary thing – good luck getting those guys off your back. You know where to find me if you need anything. And…

And? And what? I was on the edge of my seat, ignoring the fact that Cat had curled up in my bed and had started to snore.

**[Healslut]** And what?

People swore that if you refused to close your eyes, during meditation or candle watching, they would water to compensate. It was a natural response to keep you from going blind. Of course, these are the same people who poor salt water into their noses and swallow gauze for the purpose of pulling it back out and 'cleansing their stomachs'. So when my eyes began to burn from staring so long at the bottom of my computer, I wasn't completely disillusioned.

Finally, after an eon, Smith responded.

**[Smithlol] **And I probably won't be able to keep from getting on every once in awhile to see if you've sent me mail. I'll think of you… I hope you don't forget me.

And he was gone. Logged off for the night. Forever.

Maybe he was hurt, too. Maybe he was angry, or maybe he was letting me off easy. As I turned around in my chair to see that Cat was drooling on my pillow, I felt broken and a little lost for the first time in my life. Would it be that wrong to be friends with a guy I knew had feelings for me? Mason and I had only had like, two conversations. It wasn't serious. Maybe I'd mail Smith and tell him I changed my mind…

An hour later, after getting Cat into her own room with a Gatorade, and two ibuprofen next to her bed, I found myself staring into the velvet chest. I remembered my father explaining how dim-witted my mother had been to not just give the mugger her jewelry.

'_Half a million measly bucks… Didn't she know her life was worth so much more than that? Didn't she know it was only money?'_

He'd spoken with a slur and with a tear in his eye. I was twelve that day in his study. It was the first and only time he'd talked about her death, and wouldn't have at all if not for the whiskey. I learned he would never remarry, and if not for those jewels, my mother might have lived to see me graduate high school, college... It was that day I asked to keep the diamonds as though, somehow, it would be like keeping a piece of my mother.

Half a million dollars.

Except I didn't have a clue how to sell them or where to go. I needed advice. I needed to make a call. I needed to hear his voice.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

Thank you readers! I haven't given up on writing - please tell me you haven't given up on reading! After a few illnesses, moving, and several exhausting holidays, I am back to writing. I've found the sunniest room in the house and plan on gaining several pounds during the next month as I finish this and several other stories.


	12. CH 12

**-CHAPTER TWELVE-**

A new concern came with each ring of the telephone as I waited for him to answer.

_Briiiing_

_What if this is too soon to call?_

_Briiiing_

_What if he thinks I'm weird and clingy?_

_Briiiing_

_What if he actually has a girlfriend and she's there with him?_

Before I could decide to save my pride and hang up – he likely had call waiting anyway, and the phone bill was in my name – the shrill ringing was replaced by a gentle tenor.

"Hello?" He didn't sound to have been woken up.

Still, I found myself apologizing instantly. "Hey. I'm… sorry to call this late."

"It's ten o'clock."

"Oh." The clock on my mahogany night stand confirmed the time in bright, mocking digits. I paced the length of the room before going on to introduce myself. "This is Laura, by the way."

He laughed very softly, a pleased laugh. "Yeah, I know."

"I uh… I just, uh…"

Wow. Never before had I found myself in such a bind. Here I was, _needing_ someone else. Not only needing them, but feeling nervous and tongue tied and wanting to excuse myself. Good thing Dad wasn't here to witness my pathetic weakness. He would _not _be proud.

"Sorry," I mumbled again, feeling like a total loser. A floundering, flaky, and surely _irritating_-

"Why? I'm glad you called." His voice was soft and slightly muffled as though he might be talking very close to the receiver. Perhaps he was in a darkened room that insisted on a hushed tone, or maybe he had a roommate that was sleeping. "I was hoping you would."

My pacing and silent berating paused. "Really?"

Again, he chuckled, and my heart sped a little at the gruff sound. "Why else would I give you my number?"

"Good point." A small amount of my confidence returned. "Well, I need some help with something. You're not busy, are you?"

"Not anymore."

My pacing had brought me into the bathroom where I switched on the heat lamp near the shower. A dull, yellow glow fell across my face, adding a sallowness to my features. Tiny shoulders pulled back and down to imitate the perfect posture I'd been taught would lend confidence to even the most dire situation; rumpled hair hung down my back in spite of being pulled into a high ponytail; wide, hazel eyes stared back at me in earnest, wanting to know what the future would bring.

I looked ragged and a little high; my voice came out hungry. "I need help."

With concern, he responded before I could explain. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing new – just that whole financial issue…" Though he couldn't see my motion of dismissal, I shrugged. "It's a little more serious than I let on."

Pause.

"How serious?"

"Ninety thousand serious."

There was a longer pause then, during which I started to second guess my phone call. Doubting myself, my sense of direction, and my _intelligence_, I let my explanation gush out in unintelligible babble. "Look, I'm not asking for your money, or anything. I can take care of myself. I just need a little advice. Which is why I'm calling – I have this jewelry I need to sell. It used to be my mother's but she's dead now, anyway. She doesn't need it… She…"

My voice cracked.

Aside from the sudden realization that I sounded like a total nerd, I felt a tad guilty for unloading on him this way. What was I doing calling him to talk about my dead mother and her precious jewelry when I hardly knew the guy? Furthermore, what was I doing thinking he wanted to help after only two (okay, three), encounters?

"I shouldn't have called," I hurried on before he could conclude that I was nuts. "I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sure you have better things to do than listen to my problems."

"Laura, stop," he told me in a pained hush. His tone was soft, a comfort. It soothed my nerves. "Don't apologize."

I whispered, "Alright," and swallowed, reaching for _some _composure. "That was probably too much information, huh?"

Was it a smile in his voice? "Not at all. Let's meet somewhere."

"Now?"

"Why not?" he asked. "Or is it passed your bedtime?"

Somehow he knew just how to persuade me. "Name the place."

* * *

><p>It might have been expected that I would brush my teeth and comb my hair, but changing my clothes three times for a boy wasn't usually my style. Still, I tried on the skinny jeans some salesgirl had told me were all the rage, even though I secretly hated how short they made me look. Then I changed them, opting for my more traditional boot-legged choice, and added a longish sweater made of cashmere the color of slate.<p>

By the time I was ready to leave, Catrina was still sleeping too soundly to ask any annoying questions. I left her a note taped to the outside of my door in case she worried. And with my favorite black, down-filled coat with its inner pocket stuffed with money, I headed downstairs where Mason would be waiting.

Cold night air rushed down the neck of my sweater as I escaped the front doors. Nightlife and traffic greeted me with sounds of voices and horns and the static of tires over wet pavement. Bright lights of the city glinted throughout New York during its quietest hour. And my stomach wrapped in nerves to see him waiting under a street light, just feet away, bundled in a new set of black clothes, including the ski cap from earlier.

When I stepped forward, he grinned but said absolutely nothing.

I felt self conscience. "What?"

Mason shook his head, eyes twinkling with some unknown secret. "Just didn't think you'd be missing me so quickly."

"Like I made up all that shit about the money and my mother so I could see you?" I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

He laughed. "Like I said, I'm highly sought after."

We started walking, Mason leading. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and hunched my shoulders a little against the cold trying to invade my clothes. "I wish they were all lies," I muttered, partly to myself, partly to the darkness.

Partly to Mason who gave a sideways glance as we stepped into the street. It wasn't until we were safe on the next sidewalk that he said, "Should I be armed?"

I laughed. "With like, a gun?"

"Well, you keep talking about these guys and the money you owe them." He grimaced mockingly. "I'm just wondering if I should have brought my Gat."

"You _have _one?"

"Naw, I'm kidding," he told me, grinning. "I'm more of a bow and arrow kind of guy. But it's a bit inconspicuous. Doesn't really go with my image, you know?"

"Hmm," I pretended to study him. "I think you'd make a great Robin Hood."

"You think?" He held my gaze for a second longer than would have alluded to friendship.

Glancing away, I changed the subject. "So, where are we going?"

"Well, that depends," he told me with a serious tone, still staring straight ahead at where the street lights waned.

Without realizing, I began to walk a bit closer to Mason for protection, and he didn't judge my not-so-covert show of vulnerability. All around were barred store windows, stray pets, and people who wouldn't make eye contact. Feeling unsafe was a prerequisite for entering this part of town.

"On what?" I asked.

"On how you feel about underground pool halls."

"I wouldn't know – I've never seen one." Except during exaggerated, late-night television versions where people get strangled in the bathrooms because they didn't pay their debts.

Mason must have taken my shivering for fear. He bumped my shoulder lightly. "It's actually a really cool place. They make an amazing hot, buttered rum."

Someone had my number.

Just around the corner, we came to an open doorway through which a cornucopia of merriment spilled forth. Laughter and music were only interrupted by clinking glasses, tidbits of conversation, and the intermittent chimes of billiards balls crashing together. We entered under the pale, purple lights and down a staircase. I followed Mason through a doorway leading into a large room where the people were as mismatched as the furniture.

Right away someone recognized Mason. A guy with bright red hair and pasty skin sauntered over. "Hey Man. No laptop?"

"Not tonight," Mason answered.

"Huh." The guy looked me up and down. "Didn't take you for the dating type."

Before Mason could answer, another couple of guys called out their greetings. I felt like a pathetic tag-along. Obviously everyone knew who he was, especially the girls. Their appreciative glances didn't escape my notice as Mason led me toward a cluster of overstuffed sofas at the back of the room.

From here, the music was a little less loud, the company a little more sparse. Very few had chosen this quiet corner over the dart boards and video game machines lining two of the walls.

"Here?" I pointed at a brown microfiber with a rip down one arm.

Mason took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch like he owned the place. He was wearing long sleeves under a dark t-shirt that read _Lullaby_ in jagged, silver letters across the front. "Is this okay?"

I couldn't tell him how I really felt, that it didn't matter if we were roasting hotdogs over the flames of an alleyway trash can as long as I got to be in his presence. Instead, I shrugged as coolly as possible and took a seat. "Fine by me."

"Cool. I'll go get drinks, and when I get back you can let me in on your mysterious life," he joked, stepping away toward the bar. It was more of a threat than a promise since I wasn't used to letting people in.

At the bar, Mason joked with the bartender. I attempted to train my focus on the groups of people around me (couples flirting, several loners concentrating on their game of pool, a group of suits in the corner watching a widescreen television and making bets), but it was hard to pull my attention away from Mason's profile. And I wasn't the only one.

Girls were appraising him, flashing their best smiles and stupid cleavage. Okay, I was a little jealous about the cleavage. Still, he ignored them. He had the repose of someone who didn't care and never needed to try. Which I was also jealous about.

By the time he returned with our drinks, I had changed position three times in attempt to look relaxed.

"Is there something wrong with that sofa?" he asked.

Except for the obvious? "No, it's fine," I answered as the cushion seemed to give away beneath me. I felt like I was sinking. "A little soft…"

"Well let's move."

Realizing he must have been watching me, and wondering what other embarrassing things I had done (had I scraped the plaque off my front teeth or picked my nose?), I followed him to another sofa. This one was even farther in the corner, forest green, and quite comfortable. It sat kitty-corner to a semi-matching loveseat.

I took the couch. Mason fell into the loveseat so that if not for the chairs' arms in our way, we would have been sitting side by side.

Seeming to assess me, he handed over one of two coffee mugs. "So, what's the story here? How could your roommate possibly owe someone a tenth of a million dollars? And why is it suddenly your problem?"

Biding my time in answering, I took a drink of the steamy beverage that tasted of warm sugar and butter. "Wow, you weren't kidding about this drink."

"Don't change the subject."

I sighed. The alcohol had an immediate, numbing, _welcome_ effect as it soaked through me. "My roommate, the little one with brown hair – her name is Sarah, by the way – well, she has a bit of a drug problem."

"Ahh…" By his look, Mason needed no further explanation.

"So, she's racked up this bill with the wrong people."

"The ones that broke in?"

I raised my hand. "Those are the ones."

"And why don't you just call the cops?"

I scowled. "Seriously? People who have ninety grand worth of coke are usually rule-breakers. If we ran to the police, we'd probably have to _keep _running for the rest of our lives… You should know that. You're the one who hangs out in places like this..."

He laughed at my judgmental indiscretion. "Places like this, huh? Were you born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or what?" When I refused to meet his gaze, he sobered. "You were! Then why not just get the money from your parents?"

Parents. Plural. "Well, that's basically what I'm doing," I whispered, thinking about the jewelry.

"Ah, fuck. I'm sorry." Mason shook his head, irritated with himself. "I'm such an ass sometimes."

"It's alright."

"It's alright that I'm an ass?" He grinned at me. "You're okay with that?"

I couldn't help but smile in response to his confident, flirtatious nature. Snuggling back into the sofa and sipping my buttered rum, I glanced at him furtively and bartered. "As long as you help me out."

Mason chose that moment to drink the rest of his rum, never taking his eyes away from my face as he did so. The moment was calm and somehow restless. Calm because there wasn't a negative thought in the entire room. Restless because my future was reliant on whatever information he could give me about the world of black-market pawn shops.

After setting his cup down, he leaned back slowly and put his boots on the table, one by one, one balanced on top of the other. Whatever non-platonic thoughts he had were written in the softness of his response. "And how exactly can I help you out?"

My cheeks brightened. "Alright, well, here's the thing. I have this necklace that used to belong to my mom. It's the only thing I own that's worth anything. If I can sell it, I would be able to pay these guys."

"And you thought I could help you because..."

Honesty – a virtue? "Because you're the only person I know with _connections_."

"Connections." The word fell flat. "Like, _Mafia _connections?"

"Not quite." I couldn't have cared less that he'd ever been on the wrong side of the tracks. But if I wasn't careful with my speech, he might take it that way. I thought for a minute about how I could make my entreaty sound like a compliment. "The diamonds are registered – under my Dad's name. From what I know, retailers have to do like, background checks on registered jewels." My voice grew softer in secrecy. Mason leaned in to hear me. "It's not like I can just walk into a normal pawn shop and walk out with a suitcase full of money. And even if they would be willing to buy them, I don't want my dad finding out. I thought maybe…"

"You thought maybe I knew a guy?" he asked. "Like I stayed in contact with all my buddies from the prison? Like I could call in a favor?"

Grimacing, I answered slowly. "Yeaaah…"

"Wow," Mason laughed. "I don't know how I feel about that."

Someone turned on the sound system then. A cheerful acoustic number began to play lightly in the background. Hand drums accompanied deadpan lyrics.

Mason leaned forward, following my lead as I set my cup on the table next to his. "You know this song?"

He must have noticed my interest pique. "It sounds familiar."

"I think it's about going crazy."

"No wonder I like it so much."

He laughed. "You're into music?"

"On a song by song basis."

We waited out the remainder of the song. I wasn't sure how to retract the things I'd said. "Did I hurt your feelings?" It was as close to an apology that he would get from me.

"I'm a hardened prisoner. I don't have feelings."

"Oh good. Me neither." And that was the truth.

"You want a second?" Mason removed his feet from the coffee table and gestured to my empty cup.

"Not unless you wanna carry me home." Combining this much rum with the wine from earlier would probably lead to a migraine.

"How about a piggy-back ride?" he asked, standing up.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I muttered, "It'll take at least three for that to happen."

* * *

><p>Later, after some more impersonal conversation, when my second drink was depleted, Mason asked if I wanted to embark on a game of pool. Thoughts of playing coy and having him <em>show <em>me how to shoot ran through my head. I accepted the challenge and we found an open table dead center of the room where everyone could be witness to my clumsy game.

If I was worried that Mason would show me up, I shouldn't have been. He was worse than me. After ten minutes, it was still undecided who would be stripes and who would be solids.

"Is this your first time?" I asked him, laughing.

"You know..." he answered sheepishly, "That would make this less embarrassing. But no, I've actually played a lot these last months. I think you just make me nervous." He grabbed the chalk and touched up the tip of his pool stick as though that was going to make all the difference.

Truth was, I loved that I could affect him. Though I wished it could be a different effect."I make you nervous?"

"Yeah." He took a shot and missed horribly. Rolled his eyes. "Look at you."

I glanced down at my boots, my jeans. I was still wearing my coat; my hair was in a bun directly on top of my head. With a pair of glasses, I would look like a snobby librarian. "What about me?"

Mason laughed. "I'm not talking about your clothes. It's the way you hold yourself. Like nobody can hide from you. You see it all. And you're not worried about breaking hearts. You're honest."

A fault by many standards.

"It's your turn." Mason re-chalked.

I rested my stick in the webbing of my left hand. Took a chancy shot. A ball found its way into the corner pocket. I gloated. "Ha! Solids," I called, reaching for the chalk.

Mason handed it to me, letting our hands touch for a second too long. "You just lost."

His knowing smile warmed me more than the alcohol, causing a bead of sweat to tease my brow. "What?"

"That was the eight ball," he laughed.

For a split second, I thought about throwing a tantrum. I never lost. But breaking my stick over my knee would probably make things worse. Plus, I was trying to _save _money, not spend it. "What was in those drinks?" I asked by way of passing the blame for my loss.

Mason took my stick and set it gently on the table.

"It was the alcohol," I insisted, following him from the bar.

"Uh-huh," he agreed.

"Seriously."

We walked the stretch of street back to my apartment. I wished he would hold my hand. At my front doors, he fixed my collar and smiled. "I'll see what I can do about finding a buyer," he told me in a serious tone.

"You think you can?"

"Well, I'm not making any promises." He shrugged and leaned slightly closer so that I could smell his brand of soap. "But I'll try and figure something out. I owe you," he added.

* * *

><p>Mason's suspicious comment followed me all the way upstairs where my note was still secured to the outside of my door.<p>

_I owe you_…

Why would he say that?

Sarah's cookies were on a plate in the kitchen. I ate them to stave off a hangover and found my way to my computer. Blame the alcohol or my basic weakness – but whatever the reason, I decided to get on the game.

As Healslut2.

I wanted to know if Smith had sent me mail.

I wanted to know if he was on to talk to.

I second guessed thinking we couldn't be friends.


	13. CH 13

**-CHAPTER THIRTEEN- **

My monitor stared back at me, basically asking how dimwitted I was to be so undecided. It wanted to know how long it would have to wait. Account name, it asked of me. Password? Are you entering the world or not?

Not.

At least, not right now. If I was going to recant my earlier words to Smith about how we couldn't be friends, it would be when I was sober and less willing to spill my entire life. I decided to leave my monitor on as a night light and went to brush the taste of sugared-rum from my mouth. I found a set of silk pajamas to remind me of my pedigree and slipped between a set of two thousand thread count sheets. Pure bliss. And I might as well enjoy it, was my final thought of the evening.

At three o'clock, I heard the front door open. Hyper-awareness must have been to blame, because I normally sleep right through Sarah returning home. With my eyelids scraping over swollen capillaries and my head feeling dull and foggy, I trudged to the kitchen where she was pouring milk into a coffee cup and setting it inside the microwave.

"Do you think you could be just a little louder?" I asked on a note of irritation, because despite having had three entire hours of sleep, I still felt the effects of my earlier buzz. Warm, itchy, irritable... Though that last was probably more of a personality defect, therefore permanent. I reached into a poorly stocked refrigerator and procured a bottle of Gatorade.

It's a little known fact that electrolytes and vitamin C can stave off a hangover.

"Oh, sorry," she grumbled, reaching for a bottle of honey that Cat had so nicely left upside down. She uncapped it and held it sideways, waiting for her milk to warm up in what Cat calls our 'Cancer Conductor'. Yeah.

I noticed little floaters in the milk and weighed the damages of informing her. By doing so, Sarah would be spared a few hours in the bathroom which might be construed as niceness on my part. Then again, telling her would mean getting to ruin the rest of her morning, and let's face it. Sarah had kismet against her in a bad way.

"You know the milk's gone sour, right?" I asked, taking a pull from my own unspoiled drink.

"How could it be sour already?" She checked the label and frowned. "It's only a day passed the expiration."

"And that date is just for decoration?"

"It's supposed to give you a little leeway."

"It's chunky."

She sighed. The microwave beeped.

"Try the almond stuff – Cat swears it's _awesome,_" I told her after taking a seat at the little lonely table nobody ever occupies. I can't even remember why I furnished this place when all we use is the couch and the TV. Even hobos have that much. "It's full of protein or amino acids."

Or rainbow extract or magical leprechaun piss. Who knows.

Sarah went through the motions of dumping her old milk and refilling the mug with something less lumpy. She added honey and put it in the microwave. Then she rattled on and on about how work was busier than usual, how she made such and such for tips, and how Pearl _finally_ got pregnant again, so she won't have to strip when the welfare kicks back in.

"Do I even know Pearl?" I asked. Translation: _Why are you telling me this shit?_

Apparently, answering my question didn't top her list of priorities which at the moment were stirring her milk with a fork and recounting seven other non-issues at her job. The conversation only got weirder until the moment Sarah, standing directly over her milk, suddenly stopped talking midsentence. At first I thought maybe she'd had a seizure, but then I saw bright red staining the surface of her milk. A crimson dot mingling with the creamy froth, like food coloring added to the petal of a white rose.

I stood and watched the two colors mix into a lovely, pale pink before another drop fell.

Sarah had a bloody nose. "Oh no…" She reached for the roll of paper towels, but the damage was done.

"You're high again?" I asked through very tightly clenched teeth. According to my dentist I would have the TMJ symptoms of a sixty year old by my thirtieth birthday if I didn't start controlling my anger. Oh well. I slammed my palm on the table. A pain shot up through my arm, lingering at my wrist. To keep from admitting how much it stung, I shut my eyes tightly and tried counting to ten.

_One Sarah dangling from a noose._

_Two Sarahs dangling from nooses._

_Three…_

I actually only got to about six before her jabbering started up again in the form of excuses. "It was only the one time, Laura! And I'm under a lot of stress right now… I wanted to say no, and it'll be so much easier when I don't work there anymore and the temptation isn't right under my nose…"

"I can't _BELIEVE_ you're high again! After everything you've messed up around here! After dragging me and Cat into all your stupid problems!"

"I'm sorry, Laura! It was an accident-"

"An accident?" I scoffed. "Seriously? You just leaned too far over a table to read some graffiti, took a nice, deep breath and viola! High again!"

"That's not what I meant!"

"It's what you said!"

Somehow, our shouting roused Catrina who came stumbling down the hall, one hand over her eyes. "Oh my _gosh _you guys! It's like… It's really, super early."

"Tell our really stupid roommate that," I said icily. "She's high again."

Cat woke up fast. "What? No you're not."

"Not any more," Sarah whimpered through a paper towel catching the spill of blood. "It wore off an hour ago."

With an air of compassion, Cat tried reasoning with Sarah. She tried _asking _her to stop hurting herself and was met with more whimpering and wringing hands and excuses galore. Sarah's only defense was to say that this was the absolute last time. And she might as well have been reading them from an index card as often as we'd heard those very words in the past.

"Yeah, you're right," I told Sarah, getting in her face a little. "This is the last time. The last time I'm gonna believe you." Not that I'd ever believed her much in the past.

Catrina glared at me. "That's not helping."

"Helping? _Helping!_" I shouted angrily at the both of them. "Of the three of us, I am helping the most! While Sarah is getting high with her tips, I'm trying to figure out how to sell my one valuable item and not get arrested in the process! I'm the only one fucking helping here."

Sarah let her mouth gape open. "That's your plan? Selling something? What are you gonna sell?"

"What does it even matter?" I asked. "After everything – even if we get through this intact – nothing will have changed! You'll still be peddling your body for drugs that ruin your life."

"Laura," Cat whispered.

"It's true." On the verge of vomiting, I grabbed my drink and stormed out of the kitchen, but not before yelling, "I'm so glad my dead mother's necklace is about to save someone who doesn't even want to be saved!"

From my room, I could hear them putting two and two together. Sarah was crying; Cat was trying to console her. When I finally fell back asleep it was to a light jazz accompaniment I'd put on to drown out their sympathy.

* * *

><p>Next morning, I rose without even looking at the clock. For once, I didn't care that the sun hadn't come up, only that the place was silent and the bathroom was unoccupied. I took a hot shower to wash away the icky feeling of having people feel sorry for me. Soaped down until my skin and hair felt as dry as it used to when I lived in California. That's one thing I really, truly missed - skin that cracked from lack of moisture and morning nose-bleeds. Here in New York I always felt grossly damp.<p>

After toweling off, I slipped into my underclothes – something silk – and dried my waist-length hair. It was a little frizzy, which was fine by me. I just braided it down my back and finished dressing.

I grabbed my boots, my coat. It wasn't until I'd shut the front door behind me that I could take a relieved breath. Nobody had tried to give me a frigging hug.

* * *

><p>Outside, the snow had melted. The cusp of a rising sun – ominous here on the east coast – peeked from the horizon, casting a gentle, sherbet glow. The orange reflection bounded off store windows as I made my way across a street washed clean by the night's pelting rain.<p>

Inside the café, I let the door close behind me with a chime of the bell. There was no line.

"Caramel latte?" the barista asked me brightly. Too brightly.

That she remembered me was more annoyance than convenience. "Actually, something cinnamon."

We came to an agreement on all the elements of the coffee. Whole milk, half syrup, yes whip cream, yes sprinkles, no decaf. Then I waited patiently, but only because I was still half asleep. A few people entered the store, one in a camouflage jacket who gave me the creeps. Not because he was wearing hunters attire in the center of a metropolis, although that in itself was odd enough, but because he glanced at me with familiarity and took a seat in the back – without even ordering.

When it was ready, I grabbed my drink, double cupped it without asking, and ducked out, not wanting to be supervised. A shiver went up my back to think that Marcus might be having me tracked.

I walked the city for a good hour and a half, staying clear of any questionable areas. For a good twenty minutes, I imagined actually going to the police. I mean, there was a _chance _Marcus and his little proteges were small time crooks. Maybe they were just getting into the game, maybe they didn't have a large web of backups willing to bury three girls who couldn't pay up. Maybe, _maybe, _the cops would be able to help us out.

Doubtful.

And did I actually want to take that chance with my life? I pulled out my cell phone, stepping over a puddle and onto yet another crowded sidewalk. I flipped through the numbers to find my father and wondered if one more plea for help might be in order. But then, what would I tell him? I sighed and turned back toward the apartments, pocketing my phone and tossing my cup in a garbage can along the way.

* * *

><p>When I got home, Cat was sitting at the counter with a blue mug cradled in her hands. Sarah was cooking up some scrambled eggs and scones. The smell of buttery flour and chives was very thick in the air.<p>

"Good morning!" they greeted me cheerily in unison.

"Is it?" I answered in question, tossing my jacket on the back of the couch. "Did you two forget what tomorrow is?"

"Friday." Sarah's answer was dense, or in denial, as she scooped eggs onto a plate. She handed the plate to me and smiled. "New leaf?" she asked.

I only hesitated for a second before hunger pains took over. I sat and took three bites before answering. "New leaf? What's that supposed to mean?"

Sarah went about making up plates for Cat and herself. She pulled a tray of fresh baked scones from the oven. "Today is the first day of the rest of my life!" she answered. "Cat made me visualize my future. Where I'd be in five years if I didn't get my life in order? And what I saw made me so depressed – I'm turning over a new leaf."

Cat was watching me with hopeful eyes. "We know selling what belonged to your mother is a _huge _sacrifice."

"And," Sarah added, taking a seat at the table across from me, "We are so grateful. We took the day off work to go with you."

My eyebrows went up. I took another bite. Compassion was trying to find its way into the cold chamber of my heart, knocking and requesting entrance. I wanted to stay angry, but the eggs _were _delicious. With a full mouth, I answered begrudgingly, "Fine – new leaf. But I don't need any company today. I have to work, and then Mason's supposed to find a buyer for the jewels."

"Oh…" Sarah tried hiding her disappointment with a wan smile.

Cat grinned. "Mason, hu? You're knight in shining armor? Come to rescue us all? Finding a _buyer_?" She broke her string of questions to sip at her drink. "Can't you just go down to the pawn shop?"

It took me clear up until I had to work to explain why I couldn't sell to just anyone. By then, I'd eaten more scones than an English brigade. My stomach so full all I wanted was to take a nap, I headed down to the bookstore where my drill sergeant was waiting just inside the doors.

With her arms crossed rigidly, Jen – Jin – was tapping her foot with impatience. "You're late."

Incredulous, I checked the clock above the door. "Three minutes!"

"Do you have a good reason?"

"In fact, I do." And I'm sick of you acting like this store is Air Force One, I thought grumpily.

She followed me to the back room where I borrowed an apron. "Life or death?"

It turned out Thursday was shipment day, so it didn't matter than I'd forgotten my name tag. Jen and I were placed in front of a wall of boxes that needed opening and sorting and placing. Each of us was given X-Acto knives and a pair of leather gloves to keep away the cardboard cuts. After four whole hours, she still hadn't shut up on the importance of proper punctuation. And as I left the store, I couldn't help thinking how lucky she was that my knife had been especially dull.

At four twenty on the dot, I banged through the front door to find the girls waiting anxiously. Cat was holding a piece of paper. "Mason called," she told me.

Breathless, I took the paper and read. "Found someone. Meet me at the pool hall when you get off work?" I left my coat on and grabbed a drink of almond milk straight from the carton. I was nervous and scared and excited all at the same time. "When did he call?"

Sarah asked Cat, "An hour ago?"

Can nodded and confirmed, "Yeah, about. We told him you got off at four, and he said he would wait."

With both roommates on my heels, I streaked down the hall to my room. They watched, teary-eyed, as I pulled the black velvet box from my closet and slipped it into my jacket's inner pocket.

Sarah was chewing her nails. "You sure we can't go with? We won't get in the way, I promise."

"No way," I stated. "I just want to get this over with. And I don't need you two crying and quoting Confucius the whole time."

"Be careful," Cat told me at the door. "And call me if you need help navigating the south side…"

"I'm sure I can manage," I rolled my eyes and slipped out the door before they could try and talk me out of it.

* * *

><p>At the pool-hall – where only a handful of people were hanging out – I found Mason right away. He was the one sitting long-ways across a sofa, a black laptop practically blending into his clothing.<p>

He grinned when he saw me approaching. "You showed up?"

"Of course," I scowled. The idea of having so much money in my pocket was discomforting. "My life might depend on it."

Mason set his computer aside. "Have you heard from those guys at all?"

Though I felt in a hurry, I took the chair opposite him. "Not since they broke into our apartment."

He nodded, a serious look darkening his features. "When are you paying them off?"

"Tomorrow night, I guess. It'll be three days exactly by ten. That's how long they gave us."

Mason nodded. "I want to go with you."

"I'm sure you do. It's at a strip-club."

He rolled his eyes at my joke. "I want to go with you to make sure they don't try anything."

"Maybe," I thought out loud. "First, I need money."

The bartender – same one from last night – stopped by and wiped the coffee table between us with a white wash cloth.

After he lingered a little too long, I grew irritated. "Can't hear well enough from the bar?" I asked him.

Mason chuckled. "She's joking."

The bartender left.

"Sorry," I mumbled, grimacing at my behavior. Mason was, after all, just trying to help me out. And here I was treating his friends like dirt. Nice.

"You're under a lot of stress," he allowed.

Understatement of the year. "So, where are we going?" I asked.

Before answering, he leaned a little closer over the table. I caught a whiff of something sweet and masculine. Cologne? "Here."

"Here." I felt dazed by his scent. "The buyer is coming _here_? I don't think that's a good idea. There's too many-" I'd been about to say there were too many people around, but a second assessment of the room reminded me how empty the place was.

Mason was smiling and tilting his head to the side, reading me. "Too many?"

"Never mind. It's perfect." And it was. Absolutely. The bartender, after my snooty little comment, was keeping at a safe distance. Only two people were watching television in the corner, but they were half a block away. And the others in the room were either asleep from having started drinking at noon or too caught up in playing pool to notice us. "So when's he getting here?"

Mason lifted his shoulders and his hands. "Now."

I looked around, searching for the person who looked well off enough to pay me a six digit fee. When nobody caught my eye, I turned back to Mason who was probably thinking what an absolute idiot I was. "You?" I asked.

He was reaching into a cargo pocket and coming away with a checkbook. When he opened the flap, I saw a trail of one's and zero's across the bottom of the blank check. Binary code. "Who do I make it out to?"

Anger flushed my cheeks. I stood. "You can't be serious. I don't need your charity."

"It isn't charity," he told me softly, gazing up at me. "I just want to help you out, is all. And I can."

"Nice," I told him, fixing my jacket. In a moment I would be out the door. "Take pity on the poor girl whose father cut her off, and whose roommate is probably smoking crack right now because she promised me she'd quit the cocaine."

"Hey, you're the one who asked _me _for _help_," he said slowly.

"Well, I was wrong!"

"Yeah, you were wrong!" Mason stood up then. "When you judged me for having done a little time. I'm not that guy. I'm not a criminal."

_Judged?_

"Well, you're hard not to judge." I spoke too quickly, thoughtlessly, using words I didn't mean. But it was too late.

Hurt crossed his face as he replaced his checkbook and pulled a baseball cap down over his eyes. In another swift motion, he had his laptop under his arm and was heading for the door without a backward glance.

And I was left staring after my one and only chance at survival.


	14. CH 14

**-CHAPTER FOURTEEN-**

Mason's exit left me feeling slightly disjointed. My brain couldn't even assemble an entire sentence of apology to call after him. It was barely managing to keep me upright and staring as he disappeared through the doorway that would lead to the stairwell and beyond.

A strange and unfamiliar feeling squirmed in my gut. Regret.

For the majority of my life, I'd been comfortable with keeping people at arm's length, where they couldn't hurt me by dying, or leaving, or becoming emotionally unavailable. It was simply easier being cold and friendless. So why now was I suddenly _compelled _to make amends? And basically against my will…

Because Mason had gained the upper hand.

That simple realization re-kindled the hurricane of anger within. It washed out regret, the shame I'd felt at being so honest and rude. It propelled my feet forward, toward home. As I entered the apartment, Sarah and Cat were waiting with identical expectant expressions.

Cat spoke first. "That was fast. What happened?"

"Nothing." I tossed my coat to the side, very aware that the diamonds occupying its inner pocket had likely appreciated to a million dollars by now. A fortune by most standards – pocket change according to my father. "Absolutely nothing. It was a wasted trip."

"A wasted trip?" she echoed. "You didn't get the money?"

"Nope."

"So what now?"

"Don't know."

"What happened? Did Mason stand you up?" Cat continued her interrogation all the way to the bathroom where I shut her out. Even through the door I could hear her dismay on my behalf. "I thought he was a nice guy – I can't believe he didn't show up! How long did you wait for him? Are you sure you got the right place?"

After washing and drying my hands and face, I opened the door to Cat's irate expression. Sarah was pacing in the distant living room. "Yes, I got the right place. And no, he did _not_ stand me up," I replied, scrubbing lotion into my cheeks and forehead. "It was worse than that."

"Worse?" Sarah whispered. I could see her imagination on full alert as I strode to the kitchen.

Cat followed without hesitance, a new question on her tongue. "So he lied about having a buyer?"

"Oh, he had a buyer alright," I chuckled darkly, opening the refrigerator by way of habit then slamming it shut and turning to face my bewildered roommates. "He offered to pay for the necklace himself."

"And?" Cat inquired slowly.

I figured they would understand the horror, but they only stared, waiting for me to continue. Waiting for the punch line. "And I told him, no way!"

"Laura…" Cat was shaking her head, eyes closed, black hair swishing from side to side.

"Hello!" I answered. "He tried to pay me _himself_. It was insulting!"

"Right," Cat began in a patronizing tone. "I see now. The _awfulness_. A kind and generous and _handsome_ guy, who you've only known for like, a day, offers you his life savings to keep you alive… I mean, how could it get any worse? Unless he was riding a white horse-"

"I can't take charity!" I yelled, cutting off her last sarcastic words. "I won't. "We can do this ourselves."

"How?" Catrina, incredulous, jumped from her stool. "It's six o'clock! Everything's closed! And we only have tomorrow to make almost a hundred grand materialize!"

By this point Sarah appeared utterly defeated, slumped against the wall. She only pulled her hands away from her face long enough to mutter that I shouldn't be parting with such a valuable item.

"Really?" I asked her. "You haven't given me a lot of choice here!"

"It's your mother…" Sarah whispered pathetically through her fingers, her voice wavering with shame. "If it was only me on the line, and not you and Cat, then I would never let you sell her jewels."

That same unfamiliar feeling rose up from earlier, giving me pause. Twice in the same day I'd felt compelled to apologize for rash words. Thankfully, I was too stunned by my own reaction and could only stand and stare at poor, teary-eyed Sarah - the girl who was pathetic in my eyes, but also generous, and vulnerable, and ultimately very sweet. Whose sweetness propelled others to manipulate and take advantage of her.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed that all this time, as the stronger person, I should have been protecting her, helping her. And instead, I'd only pushed her further into the grave of her life.

"No." I finally found my voice. "I've held onto that necklace all these years, diluted that they were a part of my mother – a part of her life. But all they are is clutter to remind me of her death which I'm tired of thinking about. And they can save us, right? Finally have a purpose beyond gathering dust in my closet and depressing me? Besides," I added with as much an encouraging smile as I could muster, "we're in this together now, right?"

They nodded, Sarah confused, Cat wary of my sanity.

"Okay," Cat responded after a heavy pause. "So, tomorrow we'll head south to my old stomping grounds and see if anyone wants to make a killing. I know one place we could try."

Cat opened a bottle of wine in early celebration as we discussed, for over an hour, the different places we would go and the precautions we would have to take in traversing that particular part of the city. Not just anyone tours the south of Bronx without being noticed. And the natives can sense if you belong. Body language, eye contact, speech, how quickly you walk are all symptoms of where you were brought up. And crossing the lines is done with caution.

Before breaking for the night, we decided early morning would be the safest time, when the majority of people would still be sleeping. And I headed to my room, on edge that I'd done something nice, and needing to balance out the scales with some gaming.

Still irritated with Mason for being irritated with me – I mean, being called tough would be considered complimentary in some circles, yeah? – I signed into my main character without a thought to who else would be on. I was too grumpy to play nice with other characters. So, I promptly switched my spec back to tanking, equipped Heals with all her appropriate gear, and headed into an outdated dungeon, my intent to go solo. All I wanted was to sit, completely dazed, and let my mind wander as my character blasted through as many bad guys as possible – hopefully not a forewarning of what tomorrow would bring…

At one point, during the game's vanilla years, this particular raid was intended for forty people. Pathetic that now, at level 85, I needed no help. But when Sword sent my first in-game encounter of the evening, asking to join my lonely party, I invited him to come along. It turned out that his teachers had nothing good to say of his efforts in school, resulting in a family vacation minus one specific family member. With the house to himself, which was more gift than punishment, he was surprisingly decent company. And I decided to grant him a pardon for once thinking I was a guy.

**[Sword Death]** It's pretty cool being in here all alone, huh?

**[Healslut]** I guess.

**[Sword Death]** You ever run this as a forty?

**[Healslut]** Nope. You?

**[Sword Death]** I tried. Got kicked from group a lot – so I never actually finished it.

With Sword as a DPS Death Knight and me in my tanking mode, we blazed through mobs like they were made of paper. It turned out, that at this speed, Sword was actually peaceful. As long as we didn't pause for longer than it took to loot, he never spouted angry encouragements to move forward. It was a nice improvement.

There wasn't any fighting, or whining, and at the bosses we split the gear equally. None of it was worth much, anyhow.

**[Sword Death] **So what happened with that Smith dude? He file a restraining order yet?

**[Healslut]** Hilarious.

**[Sword Death]** Seriously – what's the deal there?

As annoying as Sword was in the past, he was equally insistent now. After he relayed several lewd assumptions of the truth, I found myself on the defensive.

**[Healslut] **Cut it out, Sword. I only stalked him for a couple of days. It wasn't that big a deal.

**[Sword Death]** I'm not judging! I think it's awesome. I wish some chick would stalk me.

**[Healslut]** Way to dream big.

**[Sword Death]** Now that you're over Smith, you wanna be my stalker?

**[Healslut]** I'm forty five.

**[Sword Death]** Liar.

Silence was demanded by the beauty of a new corridor where molten lava enemies stood as high as the cave ceiling. Sword took right, I took left. Our system had become unspoken. As captivated as I was with the intimate red glow, the toppling rock bodies as they died one by one, I almost didn't notice that someone had whispered me.

Almost.

**[Smithlol2] **Hey, I know you wanted me to leave you alone, but I had to make sure you were okay.

Fortunately, my adversaries were a fraction of my level, because I stopped fighting entirely to read through his sentence a second and third time. Sword was left to pick up where I'd left off – but that was fine. He loved beating my DPS.

**[Healslut]** Why wouldn't I be okay?

**[Smithlol2]** I don't know. Maybe because you're wandering through a dungeon from the cave-man days.

**[Healslut]** Who's the stalker now?

**[Smithlol2]** I prefer guardian. As in guardian angel.

**[Healslut]** I'll bet you do.

**[Smithlol2]** Actually, I was just thinking about that break-in. Did you get your locks fixed?

**[Healslut]** Yep. Good as new.

Not that they were effective in their previous 'new' condition.

**[Smithlol2]** You still mad at me?

**[Healslut]** I was never mad at you. Why would you think that?

Nothing. No response. Crickets could have been heard chirping clear on the west coast. I was glad to be talking with Smith again. Further, I was grateful he'd started the conversation that kept me from having to beg the return of his friendship.

It was stupid to assume Mason would be the jealous type, or that I couldn't continue a very blasé interlude online – even though part of me knew it was more than that. More than blasé. Maybe even the opposite.

**[Smithlol2]** Well, not mad at me. Indifferent. Which I think might be worse.

I had to agree with that. It would be worse, if it were true.

**[Healslut]** You mean because I tried to blow you off?

**[Smithlol2]** And I didn't listen.

**[Healslut]** No, I'm glad you didn't listen. I missed your egotistical ways.

**[Smithlol2] **Yeah?

**[Healslut] **Yep. And I'm not mad. Not indifferent. Intrigued, maybe…

**[Smithlol2]** Really? Wow. Though I can't say I'm surprised. *flexes*

**[Healslut]** _Vaguely _intrigued.

**[Smithlol2]** Lol – fine.

Sword had been talking non-stop about the irritation of high-school cliques. I wondered if was due to my lack of response that he suddenly logged – mid fight. I killed off everything in the vicinity then waited. Around me flowed a lake of lava. The red-orange glow reflected off my face and armor as I waded into the thick liquid to see if it would take down my life. It didn't. Sword got back on momentarily to report his hatred for wireless internet and latency. He even apologized for having to ditch me, asked if I was _sure _I didn't want to be his stalker, then bid me good night.

**[Smithlol2]** So, what about your boyfriend?

**[Healslut]** Not my boyfriend.

**[Smithlol2]** Just friend?

**[Healslut]** Not anymore – he pissed me off.

**[Smithlol2]** Oh yeah? What'd he do?

What _had_ he done? From my perspective, a well-to-do egotist had tried feeding scraps to an abandoned mutt on the sidewalk. I realized that wasn't the reality, but it might as well have been for the way I was feeling.

**[Healslut]** Well, he beat me at pool, for one.

**[Smithlol2]** How dare he.

**[Healslut]** I sense your condensation.

**[Smithlol2]** lmao – my condensation, hu?

Condensation? Ugh.

**[Healslut] **CONDESENTION. Patronization, you know what I meant. You're laughing at me?

**[Healslut]** No, no, you're right. Absolutely. He should have tried harder to let you win.

Now that I thought about it, Mason _had _been trying to let me win, and I'd sabotaged myself. Shit – now I had nothing I could hold against him…

**[Healslut]** *Sigh* Fine. The truth is, I pissed _him _off with my overbearing pride. He'll probably never talk to me again.

**[Smithlol2]** I doubt that.

**[Healslut]** You don't know how I behaved.

**[Smithlol2]** Wanna talk about it?

**[Healslut]** It's a long story.

**[Smithlol2] **I have time…

Not in a million eons would I admit to the new found ecstasy of having a friend. Someone I could talk with openly, minus the hazard of showing them my eyes - the windows to my soul, per say. Even with Cat and Sarah, who I'd known for years, I was guarded. Afraid that showing my colors could arm them beyond my defenses. Before Smith, nobody had been privy to the real Laura. For all my barbed edges, a delicate flower – though wilted with lack of water – was there in the center. Slowly, by not giving up, Smith peeled away the brambles that protected me.

With the sort of urgent relief that must accompany a first breathe after minutes under water, I dove into my story about meeting Mason. At length, I described my feelings and expectations – along with the disappointments. It was the first time I'd opened up about anything truly personal since the death of my mother, even speaking about the break-in, adding all the details I'd so far neglected to mention. Like owing either a bundle of cash or a pound of flesh by tomorrow…

**[Healslut] **And he offered to give me the money in a round-a-bout way, which was actually really nice of him. But it made me feel so weak and small. So – as _usual _– I managed to pound his generosity into the ground.

Along with whatever friendship we'd managed to devise.

**[Smithlol2] **He's probably not even upset about the whole thing. You should call him.

**[Healslut] **Naw. He was too good for me anyway.

**[Smithlol2] **He probably thinks the same thing about you.

I paused, typed something sarcastic, hit the backspace repeatedly, and typed something honest.

**[Healslut] **This is weird. Is this a weird conversation? Me talking about some other guy?

**[Smithlol2] **Weirder than you know.

**[Healslut] **What do you mean by that?

**[Smithlol2] **Never mind. What's your plan for tomorrow?

While Mason remained a romantic interest – if having a gigantic fight less than a week into meeting is romantic – Smith quickly became a friend. If only I could combine the two of them into one perfect guy, I thought, giving him the rundown about tomorrow and asking for his thoughts on my plan.

**[Smithlol2] **Well, in my professional opinion, I think you should avoid the underground. It's dangerous.

Which was precisely what I _wouldn't _do after being warned. Like a child who's been told not to touch the treats on the counter, candy become my main focus. It could be a point of control if anyone knew about it.

**[Healslut] **What's the underground?

**[Smithlol2] **Where you shouldn't be going. I'm not stupid. I'm not gonna tell you where it is.

**[Healslut] **But if it's the best place to go, why wouldn't you tell me?

**[Smithlol2] **I don't want you getting hurt.

**[Healslut]** If you didn't want me getting hurt – you would tell me the best place to sell this necklace. Because come tomorrow night, without the money, I'll _definitely _be getting hurt.

**[Smithlol2] **Well, I'm not telling. And I'm serious – stay away. Promise me you will?

Yeah, sure. I smiled tightly, typing my final sentences of the night, knowing Cat could lead me straight to this forbidden place.

**[Healslut]** How can I _not _stay away? I don't even know where it is.

Yet.

* * *

><p>The following morning, <em>barely <em>morning, Sarah tried feeding us three a nutritious breakfast of whole grain pancakes with sauteed apples and organic maple syrup. It looked good; it smelled _incredible_, but I was only able to get a few bites down before the nerves in my stomach convinced me otherwise. To keep from throwing up, I decided to save the rest for later.

We took turns showering, after which Catrina advised us to wear a lot of drab colors – nothing fancy, nothing expensive. I complied, but Sarah must have been on cloud eight during the lecture, because she almost escaped the front door wearing a bright red shirt.

"Why don't you just paint a target on your back?" Cat asked her. "Go and change into something black like I told you.

After a twenty minute setback, we stood staring into the glass doors of the coffee shop looking like brain-dead, skater wannabes. Our reflection presented a shadow of three girls in hooded sweatshirts and tattered pants. Cat even had the good sense to rip holes in the knees of my designer jeans. And if the window could show us in color, our eyes would be blazing red with fatigue, and stress, and the proof of a sleepless night.

Someone came barreling out of the store with a cardboard tray of coffees; he practically knocked Sarah onto her butt into a puddle of water, but Catrina caught her in time. The man scowled through his insincere apology before rushing off in search of a cab.

Nobody needed convincing when I bought us all lattés. Catrina ordered her usual 'healthy' dark-chocolate mocha, Sarah asked for my advice on which one had the most caffeine, and I settled for something cinnamon and caramel. (Either my tastes were maturing or I feared this being my final order and wanted to savor the largest possible amount of flavors.) Then we headed to the subway station and shuffled from the platform into a crowded car, this one an above ground rail that would allow us a view of the city.

"Okay, don't make eye contact," Cat kept warning us like we were brainless tourists from Rodeo Drive. Okay, so one of us was... "Just look like you're on a mission."

"Shouldn't be too hard." Though keeping my gaze trained away from the faces around me was a definite challenge. People-watching was second to none, in my opinion, as far as pastimes went. Especially when compared to the activity of trying to stabilize the blur of buildings outside my window. And I wasn't used to being the 'watchee'.

Several people stared at our trio in wonder. A woman with a small child seemed to think we were dangerous and placed her kid on her other side, away from us. A man with a missing tooth, who rode the rail clear into the dregs of The Bronx, continued to smile. Sometimes it was to himself, but other times it was at me and without any amount of tact. I wanted to ask what his problem was, but that would have included eye contact which was directly against Cat's orders. Plus, I didn't want him following us into a dark ally, later.

Needless to say, except for the wonder of my new favorite coffee, I grumbled internally and didn't enjoy the ride much. Overall, if I weren't so nervous, I might've been bored.

_Only boring people get bored. Interesting people make things happen._ My father's words came rushing back, full force, pulling me into a slew of memorable bits of advice. I wondered briefly if he would be proud of my incentive, or afraid for my stupidity. When the intercom announced _Castle Hill_ in a robotic, feminine monotone, it was then I noticed that the low income residential buildings had been replaced with floundering commercial ones outside my window. The subway came to a noisy stop in the middle of a city that, far from the insinuation of its name, screamed poverty.

I followed the mass of early risers onto another platform, this one consisting mainly of cracked cement, then down a staircase leading onto a street.

Cat was trying to untangle herself from Sarah's frantic grip. "Knock it off! You're drawing attention to us!"

"Sorry…" Sarah used her favorite word, and folded her arms protectively across her chest, momentarily.

Cat pushed them down at her sides. "You look like a victim; you're gonna get us shot," she hissed.

"It's cold!" Sarah wined her retort, giving a furtive glance toward a formidable sky. "And it looks like it might start raining…"

"Yeah," I agreed. "So, let's get going." I let my hands drift into the pockets of my thrifty sweatshirt, a loner from Catrina. I'd had the good sense to put the jewelry in a small pouch which I tucked into my sock then in my boot. It was a tight fit, and every step reminded me of its presence as the little rocks dug into my ankle. "Where to first?"

Cat wasn't sure how to answer that question. She led us across the street to a row of very ragged looking storefronts. "I'm not sure, yet. But we can't just stand around. You get into trouble doing that, and not because loitering is against the law."

"I wasn't aware this part of town followed any sort of _law_," I mentioned, walking quickly with the herd and reading the colorful bubbled words as they wrapped around a derelict building. The graffiti, though crass, was somewhat beautiful.

From somewhere, even at this early hour, hip-hop blared from a window, or a street corner, or a basement, its rapper very concerned with _black top, black top, black top_. The bass grew stronger as we took a left and headed toward the heart of the city where, oddly, the streets were only sparsely crowded.

"We just keep going, even if we're lost," Cat advised over her shoulder.

Glancing at the passers-by, I noted that I was a minority. "I'm definitely lost," I answered.

After a nice jaunt around the block, Cat got her bearings. Recollection flooded her memory, and she began pointing out notable land-markers. "That's The Stamp where I got my first tattoo. I was twelve though. It was a long time ago. And that's an old Toy's 'R Us. It was looted one Christmas, and they had to shut it down."

"Probably a poor location choice," I quipped in sarcastically, taking in the boards that had been stuffed between glassless windows and the bars that hadn't really protected them.

Cat glared. "Well, lucky for _you_, after it went out of business, Rocky decided to use the location for his own enterprises."

"Rocky?" I asked. "You actually know someone named _Rocky_?"

Rolling her eyes, Cat grabbed my arm for the purpose of giving me a warning squeeze as she led us all around to the back of the red-bricked structure. "He was a friend from high-school. And when we graduated, he started his own pawn shop. After it burned down – some kind of territory disagreement – he had to find a new location. And fortunately for him, this place was completely vacant!"

Battles over territory were a commonality amongst the poorer districts – well, with most districts, actually. But while the largely educated masses opted for court schedules, here in the south of NYC you were shot for crossing the wrong line at the wrong time. Unknown people were considered expendable threats. These things I knew from years spent with hoodlum-Catrina. So, I stayed close as she rang a bell, jimmied and connected to a wire that went up over the door frame and through a crack in the window.

All I could do was to cross my fingers inside my conjoined pocket as we waited. Only I couldn't be certain if my finger-crossing was in the hope he was here – or not here.

"He'll be here," Cat answered my silent thought. "I got a hold of his brother last night. I guess they work together now."

"Is this legal?" Sarah had the gall to ask.

I turned to her, shocked. Well, not _entirely _shocked. "Are you serious?" I asked.

"It's about as legal as selling crack," Cat whispered.

"Coke," was all Sarah could say before we heard the unlatching of six bolts, the removal of two chains, and the opening of a door without a handle. Overkill on a building with most of the windows broken out, if you ask me.

The door opened to a guy the size and shape of a telephone pole. "Kitten," he nodded. "Brought the whole litter?"

"Don't call me that," Cat answered with a forgiving smile before hugging her old friend. "How are you?"

It was a regular family reunion after that. Rocky invited us all inside as soon as he made sure we weren't part of the force. I started to make a joke about hiding my badge in a non-specified orifice (he could guess which one), but Cat silenced me with a look.

I shut up.

Inside of the old store, shelves remained intact, but they weren't holding stuffed animals, or game stations, or a slew of random, colorful toys with their illusion of happiness. Instead, the shelves stood empty, not mentioning the dust and splotches of what I didn't want to imagine was dried blood. At least, if it _was _blood, I _hoped _it was dry. It turned out, Rocky didn't hold shop upstairs. As we were ushered down a set of once-plush steps to a grid of offices in the basement, I was reminded of the underground.

There wasn't anybody else in the place which might have been a good thing, or it might have been the precursor to a violent crime. Was Rocky someone we could trust? I blamed the empty ambiance of a struggling city for my unease and took a chair.

Rocky, after finding the back of a desk, sat and smiled. "I heard you went to med school," he said to Cat. "You're a doctor now?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. And not a people doctor anyway – a veterinarian."

He laughed. "That makes sense, _Cat_." He was notably older looking than us, having acquired a few wrinkles around his mouth and a tuft of grey at each temple. Rocky, for the most part, looked entirely beat up by life. "You were always the smart one. Must be why you got out when you could. Not that I blame you."

Suddenly embarrassed, or ashamed, Cat bit her lip. "I heard about the pawn shop - sorry about that, by the way. I know it was your dream."

He snorted through his nose. "Dream? Naw. My dream is to survive this place. So, what's up? Why you here after all these years, 'cause I know it's not to catch up on old times." At that, his eyes sparkled with ancient memories.

"We need to sell something," Cat mentioned quickly, trying to cover for the blush creeping over her cheeks.

"What's that?" he asked with dismissal in his voice. Either he wasn't interested, or he already knew he couldn't help us out.

"Something," Cat answered slowly, "expensive. Something we don't want traced."

His hands went into the air. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

The silence drew thick as a fur blanket around me until I started to itch with anticipation. "Diamonds," I blurted out.

Rocky gave me an appraisal similar to the one I was giving the room. With its barrage of overfilled milk crates and a cloud of stale smoke leftover from his morning cigarette break, it was hard to see what kind of business was in operation. What I did know was that, with all the little boxes of ammunition laying around, we'd be wise not to get on his bad side. And for me, that was asking for a miracle.

Before he could ask a round of questions, I continued. "I know they have an ID etched into them somewhere – it'll need to be scrubbed." I could only hope I was using the proper terminology.

"Scrubbed?" His eyes left my face to scowl at Sarah who, per her usual fidgety self, was riffling through his things behind me. I turned to see her holding up what looked like a cartridge to a very large gun. "Could you maybe not touch my shit?" he asked her.

"Oh, sorry!" She dropped the piece of metal into a box and tried holding her hands together behind her back to keep them from finding anything else to play with. "Bad habit."

"Going through other people's things?" he inquired dryly. To Cat, he asked, "Who are these chicks, anyway?"

Cat waved at Sarah. "You don't remember Sarah?"

"Nope."

"I was a lot chubbier in high school," she offered helpfully. "About thirty pounds, or so. And my hair was a cute little pixy. But then I grew it out. And now I have layers…"

As Sarah trailed off, realizing he didn't give a crap about her hair, Cat looked over at me from her adjacent chair. "And this is my friend, Laura."

"Are you the one with the money problems?" he asked of me with a smirk.

"No, that's me," Sarah quipped in, her hand rising to remind him where she was at in the small room. "Cat said you might be able to help us out. With the diamonds and all."

"I see." He gave us each a measuring look as he leaned back in his chair. It groaned and leaned to the right. "What did you tell 'em about me?" he asked Catrina at last.

"Nothing! Nothing," she answered a little too quickly, a little too loud. Then, "Come on, Rocky? For old time's sake?"

"What is this, life or death?" he laughed.

"Basically," I cut in brazenly. "Are you gonna help us, or not?"

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Rocky placed both large hands palm down on the desk. He gazed at me through his dark lashes. "I'm not in that game anymore. We're legit around here now."

I snorted through my nose involuntarily, casing my surroundings a second time. "I don't know if it escaped your notice? But this is an abandoned building. And I'm pretty sure you're not paying rent."

He only stared.

I had his interest. "We need to sell a particularly valuable item at a fraction of its value. Someone is gonna make a lot of money today. Either you or someone else. I don't care. But we only have a few hours. Don't waste our time."

Rocky looked to be making up his mind about me. A frown deepened, eyes slanted.

Warily, Cat glanced my way. Sarah shifted through a new box, coming away with a tiny handgun, confirming my earlier suspicions. I'd never been good at keeping my mouth shut – today was no exception.

"Legit my ass," I muttered.

Rocky burst into laughter and leaned over the aged and splintering oak desk. "Where'd you find this one, Cat?" he asked.

She only sighed relief. "Can you help us?"

"I can't," he apologized. "But I know someone who can. You remember Samuel Jenkins? No matter," he shook his head when she looked confused. "He's working for the big time now. Down on Slants Ave. They have a shop and sell all kinds of non-legit shit, if you know what I mean." His eyes slid to my face. "And I get the feeling you do."

"Where's that at?" I asked, standing and motioning for Sarah that it was time to leave.

Relaxed and smiling, Rocky leaned back in his chair. "I just told you – Slants Ave."

It was a street I'd never heard of, but Cat nodded along.

"I know about Slants – but who're we looking for?" she asked, also standing.

Rocky got up from his chair. "You'll remember Sammy when you see him. If you want, I can make a call and let him know to expect you?" Thick black eyebrows drew toward the ceiling his head was nearly touching.

"No, that's alright," Cat responded dryly.

"He's always been a good guy. His people'll give you a fair price," Rocky assured her with a less-than-platonic pat to the back. His contact made me wonder about their past. "When you get down there, make sure an' tell 'em I sent you. Sammy should be able to help you out. And if not, he'll know who can. It's the best I can do," he finished with a shrug before escorting us back upstairs.

We exited into the now pouring rain and pulled hoods up over our heads. None of us spoke as Cat led the way though the alley behind Toy's 'R Us which ended at a street filled with thoroughfare. No cars – just people on foot. Most appearing slightly dazed.

"Okay, what the hell was that?" I muttered to Cat as we walked along at a pace that was near to running. "I thought that guy was an old _friend._"

"He is."

"But he was acting like more. And he was acting a little pissed that things didn't work out between the two of you."

Cat checked both ways before crossing the street. "I know…"

I waited through two more blocks before irritation got the better of me. "Are you planning to explain?"

Cat sighed.

Sarah dropped her hands to her side and spoke up. "They were best friends in high school, but Rocky always wanted more. He even dropped off the basketball team to prove she was more important than sports, remember?" she asked a very terse Catrina who nodded along.

"Gave up a scholarship." Sarah swiped at the stream of water making its way into her mouth. "He always just assumed they'd end up together, but at the end of senior year, when she went out with Randy Fletcher – well, he got pissed and kinda went down the wrong road."

"Then I moved and never saw him after that," Cat added sadly.

"Fuck me!" I stomped through a puddle and stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets. "Are you serious? We just asked a scorned lover for _help_?"

"Not lover," Cat corrected as she avoided the gaze of an oncoming gang of boys. All of them were eyeing us and cat-calling. No pun intended. "Friend – that's all."

When the group gushed passed us, I went on. "Fine. A friend who wanted more. Doesn't matter, Catrina. To him, he's scorned. He wanted you, and you rejected him. We can't trust his advice!"

"Rocky's not like that."

"How do you know?" I asked her. "Seriously! He could be sending us to our death beds."

"He could," Sarah agreed in a distracted tone as she checked the nearby shop which had cooking wares displayed in a dirty window. "But if he wanted Cat dead, he could have taken care of that in his basement."

"Not with witnesses," I muttered.

Right there, in the middle of a crowded sidewalk soaked with rain, Cat paused. For the first time since meeting her freshman year, she appeared uncertain. "What then? You have a better idea?" she asked me. "Because if you do, I'd love to hear it!"

I forced a breath of air through my nose and glanced across the street to where two bums were fighting over a bright blue bottle. The irony was hilarious. Mouthwash. But it reminded me that times could be worse, and to fight for what I wanted.

Life.

Something else caught my eye. A man standing away from the crowds and watching me as I watched him. A man wearing a camouflage jacket. A shiver traveled the length of my spine as I tried to figure out if it was the same guy from the coffee shop - which couldn't possibly be the case...

"No," I told Cat finally, meeting her gaze. "I'm just paranoid."

"I forgive you," she muttered, leading on.

After about ten thousand blocks, when we appeared to have left camo-guy behind, we came to a stop at Cat's demand. Not because she was as winded as me, but because we'd apparently arrived at our destination.

"Here?" I asked, uncertainty forming a prominent line between my eyes. I looked around at the apartment buildings strewn with armature art and lines of drying clothes. A few kids were playing throw-trash-at-a-stray-dog while a woman hung from her window to yell at them. Part of the nearest street sign was broken off. The piece remaining read _Avenue _in startling white on green. "I doubt we're gonna find someone to pay a dollar for these jewels, let alone-"

"Not _here_," Cat answered, pointing down the stairs of a subway entrance. "There."

Sarah looked at me with another _I'm sorry_ expression. "Where the avenue is slanted…"

I grimaced but followed them both down the stairs, trying to avoid the hotdog wrappers and other debris. Cat looked only partly paranoid as she grabbed both mine and Sarah's hands, giving way with pretenses about being brave. The entire strip was riddled with unmentionable people. We bustled through the crowds toward a mysterious doorway.

As it seemed, there were businesses down there - _underground _businesses whose entrance led from a crowded and noisy subway into an unimaginably secret world through an even more secret door. Where the subway ended, enterprise did no such thing. We came to a place where the track met a wall. Anyone who wasn't searching would be hard pressed to notice the door at the back of a long forgotten closet.

Nobody seemed to care when we disappeared into that closet, filled with dust and cleaning supplies. Cat led through the darkness until we felt the outline of another door. It was locked.

I fought against the blackness, trying to see my surroundings. Every sense was on high alert, especially that of _smell_. It was dank and moldy in that closet. As I tried not to imagine if there were decaying bodies somewhere on the floor, fear began to eat away at my stomach. "Is someone supposed to answer? How did you even know about this place?" I'd known we would end up in horrible places today, but none like this.

"Don't ask," Cat warned as she knocked a second time.

At long last, the door opened and we were invited inside. At first, the new room - another closet like the one we'd left - was too bright with the yellow light of a single lantern. Our eyes were acclimating, but not even shock could mask the voice in front of us.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER NOTES:<p>

Here's to hoping you enjoy this installment! Thank you for reading:)


	15. CH 15

**-CHAPTER FIFTEEN-**

In a dimly lit, cement box with a confused looking Mr. Burly, we stood stock-still and waited. How the heck did something like this even happen? I thought of the possibilities, letting my mind wander.

_Cat was trying to off me… Rocky was trying to off her… Sarah was trying to off us all…_

Then Mr. Burly spoke.

"This isn't a place for little girls! Who sent you?" he asked, patting us down, one by one, in search of weaponry. We were all too shocked to deny the intrusion on our privacy, and he was too clumsy to notice the bulge in my boot; the only thing he deemed worthy to confiscate was a lone bullet from Sarah's pocket, a memento from our visit with Rocky. He held the tiny piece of metal up to the yellow light as though seeing such a thing for the first time in his life, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from explaining what it was.

Sarah shrugged guiltily for her kleptomania. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to-"

But he didn't care about her problems or her explanations. "What is _this_? Planning to _shoot_ someone?" he asked, cutting her off.

Sarah could only whimper in reply, eliciting a half-hug from Cat. The two of them seemed to be shaking a little, and I felt my dormant, motherly instincts kicking in. Of the three of us, even though Catrina was the one from the hood, I was the loud-mouth with guts. With any luck, I would get us out of here – not killed.

I searched around for an escape while Burly continued to interrogate poor Sarah about what she planned to do with a bullet. A bullet _without _a gun, which I kept my mouth shut about.

"You even know where you are? You can't carry weapons down here unless you're big time!" He spat both words and moisture into Sarah's face – causing her to jump a little – before pocketing his loot and taking a step backward to better see the three of us. A similar intense scowl graced his wide forehead, the same oppressive demeanor I remembered from the other night. And there was something else – confusion. For whatever reason, he seemed uncertain about how to respond to our presence. "Are you big time?" he mocked.

When nobody flexed or flashed a gold tooth to prove how 'big time' we were, I nudged Catrina. "This is all you, Cat." _You and_ _Rocky_. Decidedly, both would be to blame if I ended up as dog meat tonight.

"Cat, hu?" Burly looked suddenly intrigued. "How come you look so familiar?"

"Seriously?" The word was out before I could keep my anger in check. I was too stunned by his ignorance to keep quiet. In fact, the shock nearly sent me into a verbal rage. "You have _got_to be kidding," I seethed through my teeth to stifle what would have been a scream of frustration. Was he toying with us? Cat's hand rested on my shoulder, probably to keep me from saying anything that might get us murdered. But I brushed it away. "Alzheimer's much?"

"You're a sassy one," he informed me like it was news.

"And you're a moron," I countered icily. "You broke – into – our - _apartment_! I cannot _believe_ you don't remember!"

"That ain't what I was talking about_._I full remember breaking your locks and wrapping my hand around your skinny little neck. Do you?" he asked, reaching for me a second time in as many days.

I started to wonder if this would be the time he crushed my windpipe. Then I wondered if a person could actually die of a crushed windpipe. Then I wondered if he was strong enough to break my neck, because that was _surely _fatal. Then I thought about the blood and how Sarah had a weak stomach, so then I thought about her puking… The entire picture wasn't very pleasant. Fortunately, before he could grab me, Sarah jumped between us and shouted in panic.

"Rocky sent us!" she blamed.

He paused midstride. "Rocky? _Rocky_ sent you?"

"Yeah," Sarah gasped out. "He said it would be fine. He told us to ask for Samuel..."

"Jenkins," I finished from behind her.

"Rocky?" he asked again. "Rocky sent you?" he pointed at me.

"Yeah," I answered before turning to my roommates and speaking from the corner of my mouth. "Is he having an embolism?"

"And you," he pointed to Sarah, ignoring me. "And you," he pointed finally to Cat, repeating her name as though trying it on for size. "Cat? Cat… _Cat_…" It was creepy. "Where do I know you from?"

"Umm…" Catrina raised her eyebrows and gazed at him gingerly. Like he was a talking frog. "You mean besides our little rendezvous at my apartment?" she asked with care.

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers with recollection. "Catrina. From Memphis High!" he guessed excitedly, and his voice billowed off the walls, echoing again and again like we were in a cave.

Oh wait. We were.

Then recognition startled across Catrina's pale face. Her eyes brightened with loss of fear, morphing the ambiance from horror to humor. "Sammy?"

I wanted to scream. "This is Sammy? Are you serious?" I asked Catrina, ignoring the others. "The guy who breaks into our home and threatens us just happens to be an old high school friend of yours? The guy who's gonna help us out of the mess he's a _part _of?" My hands went up in surrender to the insanity of the situation. "Well, maybe we should all just sit down for tea! You like Earl Grey?" I asked Sammy. "No, you look like more of a Chamomile kind of-"

"Laura," Cat interrupted, unperturbed that we were crammed in a room the size of a closet with Mr. Jigsaw himself. "I had no idea who he was until now. But this is a good thing!"

"Yeah, Laura." Sammy was in agreement. "Lighten up a little!"

Anger burned through my chest, but I kept it down by swallowing. While Sammy was turning out to be something less than menacing, he was still in charge here. So, I decided not to give him a verbal beating - especially since it looked like his suspenders were actually a gun holster. And not for show.

Catrina was actually starting to smile a little at this sudden good fortune - Mr. Burly being an old high school acquaintance. Maybe her eyes were better than mine and she was seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. "This is unreal," she whispered. "What happened to you? I don't even recognize you anymore."

Sammy shrugged his broad shoulders, suddenly looking like a gigantic teddy bear. "Money's scarce, Cat. Not everyone got a scholarship for good grades. I took the first job that came along…"

"No, I mean what _happened _to you?" she repeated. "You used to be this little skinny kid who always got picked last for sports."

"That's how bullies are made," I muttered under my breath.

Cat continued without missing a beat. "Now you're huge."

"Steroids, _obviously_," I interjected.

But Sammy was far from listening to my side commentary. He was flexing as though Cat's disapproving words were a compliment to his enormous physique. One that came with the curse of aging at twice the speed nature intended. He looked like he could have kids in grade school. "So, you want through the door, huh? Does this have anything to do with tonight's meeting?" he asked Cat.

She sighed. "Isn't there any way you could give us an extra week? Or even a day," she bartered.

Sammy was shaking his head before she'd finished her sentence. "No can do. It ain't my debt, Kitty Cat. You know how it goes. And I only work for Marcus – if I said you could have another _hour_, he'd have my balls." He opened the door at his back, gesturing that we were free to leave, even though it wasn't really leaving so much as falling deeper into the rabbit hole. We gazed passed his lumbering form into a corridor, much like the subway, only without any trains. Just empty track for a couple of blocks and what looked to be a swap meet on either side. "I've got guard duty today. And not just anybody is allowed in, but since Rocky gave the go ahead, I'll let you through."

Cat nodded and took a step through the doorway.

As we followed, Sammy's voice came after us. "Be safe. And don't forget about ten o'clock. Marcus is a one chance kinda guy…"

That was warning enough for me.

Cat nodded again, and we were hustled out a shutting door.

"We made it!" Sarah forced out a sigh.

After looking around with wary eyes, possibly gauging our next move, Catrina began leading us down the right side of the 'market'. "Don't get your hopes up just yet," she warned. "The underground is a volatile bitch. One second it gives you whatever you want, the next it tries to have you killed."

So this was the underground Smith had warned me about. And no wonder. As we passed them, each booth was scarier than the last with stacks of leather briefcases and glaring merchants, outlandish weaponry and unrecognizable paraphernalia (all of it illegal). The only welcoming spot was in the corner where a scraggly old man was selling pets.

"Wow, this place is eclectic," I mentioned, one hand pointing out the monkeys and lizards in crates and cages.

"Those are exotic animals," Cat explained. "Their illegal and pricy. Don't let that guy fool you. He's probably taking a Ferrari home tonight."

"Think he wants some diamonds?" I asked with a little sarcastic hope. Someone needed to be light-hearted to keep up moral down here in this dreary dungeon.

"Not likely," responded Cat.

We traveled the horse-shoe of booths, trying to avoid eye-contact and searching for the one type of vender that would be interested in what we had to sell.

Cat explained in a hush that this place came about during an unfortunate earthquake. "It was supposed to be the rest of the subway – but after the quake, it was unusable space. Unless the city wanted to spend another hundred thousand to fix it, which they didn't. Instead, they'd blocked it off and called it good. For awhile, it was a makeshift homeless shelter, but then the thugs came in and drove them out. Now it's used for this."

Even as we walked forward, alongside the track, it was at a downward slant.

Hence the title, Slants Ave.

"How is this even legal?" Sarah whispered. For a person into stripping and cocaine, she sure was worried about doing the right thing.

"It's not," I scorned. "Obviously. That's why they're down here and not opening shops at the mall."

"No." Sarah shook her head, eyebrows scrunched together. "I don't understand how the police just let this happen. I mean, lots of people must know it's here, right? How come it hasn't been shut down?"

"That's why." Cat jerked her head to the side where a man in a black and blue uniform was sauntering past. Clear as day, he was a crooked cop.

"Oh." After that, Sarah stayed silent. And it wasn't long before we found what we were looking for.

Squashed between racks of fox furs and what appeared to be a chemistry workshop was a tiny table covered in black velvet. Atop that, little boxes sparkled with high end goods. We should have been more cautious approaching what might have been a murderer or a terrorist, but we stepped forward with my confidence going before us.

"We need to sell something," I told the tiny Hispanic man with a black mustache.

He smiled at me in a way that made me feel like entertainment. "Cookies?" he inquired.

Cat joined my side before I could come up with a cutting retort. "We have something that will make you a very wealthy man."

"I am already a very wealthy man," he answered dismissively.

Without thinking, I pulled the jewels from my boot, laying them out across the velvet cloth. Against the black, no flaws were seen in any one of the rocks. My father had perfect taste.

Even the vender, as he reached to touch them, sucked in a breath. "Beautiful," he muttered to himself, lifting the string of diamonds into the light. "Impossibly flawless. Not a single blemish or inclusion… Where did you get these?"

"They were my mother's," I managed to choke out. Tears were threatening to make their appearance, but that wouldn't look good during a deal like this. Cat rubbed my back as I gathered another sentence together. "We need to sell them – today."

"Well, that's rich. Usually I'm the thief," he laughed, and I couldn't be sure if it was at my expense or his own.

Either way, I became irritated with his attitude. "What's that supposed to mean?"

My tone must have grabbed his attention, because in a second flat his expression sobered. "Look, Sweetheart. I don't know what you think is going on down here, but I'm here to _make _money, not give it away."

"Right." I stepped closer, placing both hands on the table in spite of Cat's warning glare. "You buy low and sell high. I'm offering you the deal of a lifetime."

The man was no longer smiling. He was laughing. "You think I _bough__t _all this?" He waved my attention toward the little expensive boxes with their even more expensive contents.

As it dawned on me what he'd meant when he'd said he was a thief, I realized he was still holding onto my necklace. _What now?_ I shrugged to cover for the fact that I was starting to shake. "Alright, we'll just take the necklace and go then."

"No, no, no…" His head shook from side to side, chastising. "You said you wanted to sell, so let's make a deal. I'm thinking… Twenty."

"Twenty thousand!" I shouted in anger. "Those were worth half a million just two decades ago. And I know for a _fact _that jewels like that don't go down in value."

As he practically doubled over in laughter, I turned to Catrina for a little help. She was just as freaked out as I was, but I couldn't even focus on her wide eyes, because in the distance behind her was the man in camouflage. And he was walking toward us.

I hadn't mentioned him to my roommates, uncertain if he was really a threat. But now, after three sightings, I was sure it meant something. My heart started to punch at my ribs as I turned back to the vender. "Ninety," I told him firmly, my voice only shaking a little.

"Fine." He grinned and pulled out a metal lock box, trading the jewels for a small wad of cash and locking it up again. I couldn't believe my luck. We were about to make the perfect amount of money _and_ escape from the creepy stalker guy by the skin of our teeth, as my father would say. All would be fine and well. But then he tossed four twenties and a ten on the table in front of me. "There you are. Nice doing business with you."

"Wha…" Stunned, I turned to see that the man in camouflage was growing steadily closer.

"What are you looking at?" Cat asked me, following my gaze.

"Some guy that's been following me since yesterday." _Or maybe longer..._ My whisper was husky with emotion. Fear. "I don't know what he wants, and I don't want to find out."

"You think he's with Marcus?" Cat had grabbed at my arm; her fingers were digging into my sensitive flesh just above the elbow. "You think he's decided to change the meeting time? Is he coming to get us?" she screeched.

"Maybe," Sarah answered as she took a step away from the booth, preparing to run for the exit.

There was a chance it was a fluke. Maybe the guy was just some creep who found me irresistibly attractive. So much that he followed me all the way from outside my apartment… Yuck. But the chance was greater that he was sent by Marcus to 'remind' us in some way or other that we had a debt to pay. Either way, I didn't want anything to do with him. I didn't want to have to turn down his offer for a date or find out if his reminder came with a limp or a missing finger.

As he struggled through a crowd of people, his eyes still trained on my face, I reached across the table in a dangerous move. I grabbed the sleazy vender by the front of his shirt and demanded he return my necklace. But then, out of nowhere, two very large men appeared, each of them holding a gun in my direction.

The vender smiled as I let go of his shirt and patted out the wrinkles. "Shit," I muttered. "Sorry about that." The diamonds weren't worth my life and the lives of my friends. "Look, it was just a misunderstanding. When I agreed, I thought you meant ninety _thousand_. And I really need those diamonds. Them or the money – can't we work something out?"

"We already did," he told me with finality, resting his hand on the steal case. His buddies had stepped forward to let me know our time was up. We either walked away with our lives or risked losing both money and blood in the same day.

I glanced at the cash on the table and wanted to cry knowing what I had lost in exchange for practically nothing, but there wasn't time for a melt-down. While the camouflage dude was approaching at a jog now, and reaching for something at his belt, the need for immediate exit was apparent. Soon we would have three people pointing guns at us.

We were already hustling to leave when, in a flash, several things happened at once. None of them stayed straight in my head. All I saw was Cat turning on her heels, one of the guards pocketing his weapon (or at least I _think _he was putting it away), Sarah grabbing for the ninety bucks on the table, and a gun going off. All we focused on was that booming sound as it reverberated off the walls, causing us to jump and scatter toward the exit with even more speed than intended. It was hard to know who had fired the shot or why, but none of us cared to stand around and ask questions.

Down the length of crowded cement, we sprinted with Cat in the lead. Our venture had me turned around and backward. I couldn't tell which end was up and which was forward as we slipped between trench coats toward our escape.

With the door in sight, and slightly ajar (oh joy!), I heard a man calling my name. Reflexively, I turned to see who would have recognized me, and I tripped right over a damn crack in the cement. Even though I caught myself on a stranger, avoiding a scraped knee, I'd lost a ten second gain. Not only was the camouflage guy a mere twenty strides behind, but he was the one shouting, _"Laura!"_ And for all I knew he was the trigger happy one, as well.

"He knows your name?" Cat huffed, grabbing me and urging me forward. "How does he know your name?"

"I don't know!" I followed her and Sarah in the closet. We turned and slammed the door, but there was no lock on this one. "Just go! Go! Go! _GO!_"

Sammy stood from where he'd been reading a magazine. Cat shouted frantically that we needed out, and he unlatched the deadbolt at the ceiling, setting us free with a quizzical expression. Just as we tumbled into the subway, the camouflage guy had entered the closet.

There wasn't even time to catch our breath before starting another sprint. We ran all the way to the stairs, then up the steps to the street. Just when I was feeling sure we'd lost him, I rounded another corner and landed right into a set of arms.

I tried to struggle free, but the voice above my head was etched with concern and _familiarity_. "Laura, what happened?"

My head whipped up. "Mason? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too," he answered grimly. "Mind responding to my question with an actual _answer _this time? I thought I told you-" He cut himself off.

"Told me what?"

"Never mind. Are you in trouble or something?" he asked, changing the topic. "You were running like a bat outa hell." With one hand he removed his baseball cap, this one a deep blue, and returned it to his head. I caught a whiff of his scent and calmed immediately. Somehow, in his presence, I didn't feel quite as afraid for my life.

Before I could answer that, like a mental patient, I'd thought it was a good idea to try and sell my mom's jewelry all on my own - on the black market - for the first time ever – in The South Bronx – he turned to see Sarah staring down at her arm. The black shirt now had a tiny hole near her shoulder. Farther down, blood was dripping from the bottom of her sleeve.

"Oh fuck. Were you _shot_?" Mason asked her, taking her arm gently and ripping the hole into a larger one.

Sarah looked in shock. Her face was as white as a sheet. "They shot me," she gasped. "They actually _shot _me. I think they thought I was reaching for the lock box - but I was just... reaching for this." She opened her hand to reveal a wad of bloody cash.

Mason took the money and handed it to me, continuing to look her over, murmuring, "It barely clipped you. Didn't even tear through muscle, let alone bone. You'll be fine after a few stitches."

Now Sarah looked ill. "Tear through muscle?" she repeated numbly.

"You'll be fine," he told her. "But we should get you to a hospital. It's bleeding pretty bad." Like a gentleman, he pulled out a scarf and wrapped it tightly around her arm before waving a taxi over.

"No white horse?" Cat asked him, getting into the cab. She might have been looking at Mason, but she was speaking to me.

I rolled my eyes and got in the front seat. It might have been rude, but I was still upset after our last meeting. We rode to the nearest clinic (the driver didn't think an emergency room was necessary – convenient for him, because the clinic was ten miles farther away than the hospital), and by the time Sarah was off getting her 'cooking accident' stitched up, Mason, Cat, and I were left in the waiting room.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence ticked by before Cat took the hint and left to grab a cup of coffee. But not before giving me a cellophane wink to say that with her blessing, Mason and I could now proceed with making out in the waiting room.

_Right._

"How did you even know where to find me?" My question was an assumption that he'd been looking for me in the first place. Maybe even following me for fear that I'd end up smeared across some criminal's store floor – which was likely.

Mason sighed. "I didn't _know_. I _guessed_," he answered in a low voice, leaning down and resting on his knees. When he gazed up at me, there was compassion between the kindness and worry in his blue eyes. "You're very easy to read, despite trying to stay invisible."

In this position, I had to look down at him. I tilted my head to the side, waiting for him to expound, which he eventually did.

"I figured you'd do something drastic to get the money you need. And with Sarah being… who she is, I figured she might decide the underground was your best bet."

"Well," I admitted, "you were partly right."

"Did it work? I mean, before the shootout and all…" he asked with a wink.

I blushed. "Not at all. I didn't get the money, the dirt bag vender stole my necklace, and some weirdo shot Sarah. All in all, I'd say it was a loss." My attempts to let sarcasm wash out the fear were ineffective.

Mason guessed right away that I was feeling the pressure as it tried to suffocate me. "My offer still stands."

"The one to be my knight in shining armor?" I quoted Catrina, thinking how right she'd been.

"You're still upset about that." Mason sat back in his chair, slouching down a little, searching my face for answers. "Why? Why can't I help you?"

I looked away. There must be something of interest to stare at. Blue commercial carpet, white walls, a stack of crafting magazines… There! A vase filled with fake flowers that probably smelled of dust. I let my eyes bore into the muddled colors for a long time.

Mason stayed quiet, watching me.

Finally, I couldn't stand the pressure. "I just-"

_I just don't like people thinking I need to be taken care of._

"Come on, Laura…" My name on his tongue made me ache a little. "You can actually trust me."

"I just hate when people try to take care of me. And I thought I could do this all on my own – but now…" Onto the table between us, I tossed the ninety dollars, still tainted with memory and dabbled in Sarah's dried blood. "It's a lost cause."

He shook his head. "You know, everything happens for a reason."

Forcing out a sigh, I fell back into my chair that turned out to be less comfortable than it looked. "Oh, not that kismet crap again. I get enough of that from Cat."

He laughed. "Not kismet, whatever that is. Just…" He couldn't come up with the proper word, so I helped him out.

"Serendipity?" I guessed.

"Yeah, that," he agreed as easily as if he'd recently seen the movie himself. "But maybe I shouldn't have forced the issue."

In question, I narrowed my eyes.

"Within the same time frame you needed money and met someone with money. In my mind, it would've all worked out perfectly. You could have sold me the jewels, saved your life, and I could have made a profit selling them to someone else. It would have been a win-win. But I ruined it by being too forward. I shouldn't have offered to pay your roommate's debt," he admitted with a light shrug that made me wonder how sincere he was being. "I should have waited for you to ask for help."

"Which never would have happened," I told him.

"Which never would have happened," he repeated in agreement, memory glazing his eyes. "Because you're far too stubborn and reckless."

I scoffed, straightening my back in protest. "I am _not _stubborn _or _reckless!"

Mason smiled, causing my heart to do the acrobatics it did whenever his eyes glinted that particular way. Like sunshine was escaping from within, rather than illuminating the flecks of grey from above. An ache pierced my chest, sharp and scorching, for several reasons. First, because I liked when he smiled - second, because I feared it would be one of the last times I would witness it. "Then you'll take it?" he inquired with presumptuous charm.

_Checkmate._

If I told him no, I would prove my insolence. If I told him yes, I would be taking charity. At this point, both were a loss, but the former included a funeral… "You tricked me."

His smile turned into something forlorn, his eyes following suite. In a moment of sentimental honesty, he told me the truth behind his offer to pay Marcus. "I just want you to be around for longer than today. Please take the money."

Curling into the chair next to me with a steamy cup of coffee marred by an excessive amount of tasteless cream, Cat interrupted. "So, what are we talking about?" she asked.

"What else," I muttered. "Our current crisis."

"You tell him about the underground?" she inquired, one finger dipping into her coffee to test the temperature.

Mason grimaced. "I can't believe you went down there. It's madness."

"Well, one positive thing came out of it. Sarah's finally paying her debt in blood." I couldn't help but be a little smug that what went around was finally coming back around. And this time to take a swipe at Sarah. "Maybe this will leave an impression," I joked.

Cat wasn't amused. "Not funny, Laura."

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" Mason interrupted. "We get a cashier's check and meet up with that guy at his strip club?"

"We?" I asked.

"Check?" Cat asked.

Begrudgingly, I explained. "Mason wants to pay Marcus himself – since our own plan was a dismal failure," I added.

"It was a good try," he allowed with another heart-shattering smile. The impulse to sit beside him, to hold his hand, was becoming a _need_. A need I pressed to the back of my mind as he continued making his case. "I don't want you guys getting hurt. And if this Marcus guy is as dangerous as he sounds, it isn't worth the risk not to pay him. Money's sort of fallen into my lap with little effort, not to brag. And I have more than enough. I could give to a charity, but this seems a more worth-while cause," he finished with a meaningful look in my direction.

Cat waited for me to make a decision, to express with no amount of uncertainty that I would accept Mason's gift and end the 'madness'. Finally, with a discontented sigh, and to both of their immense relief, I conceded.

"Fine," I grumbled.

* * *

><p>An hour and a half later (how it took two hours to give fifteen stitches was a mystery), Sarah emerged with a look of nausea. Her sleeve was still torn and bloody, but through the rip a clean, white bandage was visible. Clutched in her freckled hand was a prescription for something to ease the pain.<p>

After some debate, we decided not to go home for the hours remaining before our meeting tonight. Mason thought that would be taking chances, considering both Marcus and the camouflage guy knew where we lived. Instead, we took a taxi to Mason's place where he invited us up for takeout Chinese delivered in twenty minutes or less. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I could smell the food permeating the paper boxes on the table.

"Hope you like it." Mason set a stack of black plates on the table, along with a few of forks. "It's my specialty."

"Yum," Cat said, gathering a plate and stacking it high with the various flavors. Veggie fried rice, egg rolls she made sure were vegetarian by taking a bite, fortune cookies, and a thick, red sauce. Sweet and sour.

When Sarah had served herself, the two of them took seats at the table and began to eat, no longer paying attention to Mason and me.

I grabbed a plate, very heavy, and a fork, also heavy. In fact, the entire place looked filled with heavy, dark objects. It was cozy, that was the only way to put it. Large, overstuffed furniture, a grandfather clock that chimed every quarter hour, a large, flat-screen tv that took up the majority of one wall, lava lamps, and expensive looking trinkets – the sort I might see on my father's desk at home.

Home.

For the first time since leaving for college, I yearned to be home in California, snuggled safely in my custom made bed. Eating a banana split prepared by our chef. Watching re-runs of Friends.

A nudge from Mason interrupted my reminiscing. "You okay?" he asked quietly, keeping the conversation private.

I waited until we were across the room, sitting in one of his gigantic, suede couches before answering. "I'm just tired."

Mason twisted a bite of noodles onto his fork, took a neat bite, chewed and swallowed. "Liar."

The rice was perfectly sweet and salty, tainted with MSG, no doubt. I was surprised Cat was even eating it. But I was never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, unless the gift horse was money, and the giver was a guy I liked. "Okay, I'm nervous. I don't see tonight going very well. But I'm also tired. That was true. Cat got us up at the butt-crack of dawn this morning…"

At that, he laughed. The sound vibrated through the couch. "Well, if it helps, I'll be there the entire time, okay?"

"Yeah," I sighed.

"And you can take a nap, if you want. We have a few hours." Mason reached over and pressed a button on one of the many controllers decorating his coffee table. The television came to life with an episode of Family Guy. "Background noise," he explained. "It's become a habit since I left home. My Dad always had the television going…"

"I like this show." I took a large bite of rice, relishing in its texture and the relief it offered my vacant stomach. "But I can never decide if they can hear Stewie, or not."

Finished with his food, Mason put his plate and one socked foot on the table. "I think it changes with each episode," he said, pulling a merlot colored pillow into his lap and hugging it. "But I prefer when it's just the dog that can hear him."

"Agreed." I'd eaten all I could and my plate joined Mason's on the beveled, oak table. Nerves were still tumbling through my stomach, taking up the majority of room. If I ate anymore, I feared vomiting on Marcus later. Not that he wouldn't deserve the gesture.

Cat announced at the door that she and Sarah were heading to the pharmacy, Mason gave them directions – it was only two blocks away – and against my greater efforts to stay awake, I closed my eyes and sank into the couch. It could only be filled with feathers, I thought.

Suddenly, with the noisy return of my roommates, I blinked the fog from my sight and sat up, realizing _someone _had covered me over with a blanket. But Mason was nowhere in sight.

"Wow," Sarah tumbled onto the sofa without a single concern that it wasn't hers. "These things are amazing. Not only do I not feel the pain in my arm, but I don't feel my arm."

"Greeeeat…" I drew out the word to match the extent of my misgivings that she should be taking opiates. Legal, or otherwise. "A new drug of choice?"

"Stop it," Cat giggled.

"Did you take one, too?" I asked, craning my neck to see Catrina closing the front door and rolling her eyes at me.

"I'm high on life," she said, kicking off her shoes out of respect for Mason's plush, black carpet. Her good mood could be easily explained with the knowledge that in just a few hours, we would never have to worry about Marcus and his thugs again. "You should try it sometime."

I pulled my rested body out, not off, of the fluffy couch, stretched the kinks from my neck and back. "How long were you guys gone?" I asked, wanting to know the duration of my nap.

"The length of a rainbow," Sarah sighed.

The clock in the kitchen read six thirty three. I'd been asleep for well over two hours. "She'd better be sober by tonight," I warned Cat, whom I blamed for letting Sarah indulge in more than half a pill. Then I went to find a bathroom.

Down the hallway, I counted five doors. Since Mason never gave me a tour, I decided one was in order and pressed on the first door. It swung open to reveal a plethora of fitness machines and free weights. The second door led to a closet. I took a right down the t-shaped hallway and met a third door – bedroom. I decided it would be a breach of privacy to stand and memorize the place Mason slept, so I turned abruptly and ran smack into a wall of person. Warm and soft, yet firm and unyielding. The weights were doing a good job.

I stepped back, glanced upward to see him smile down at me. "Didn't know you woke up."

"Yeah, uh," I stuttered. "This isn't the bathroom."

He chuckled. "Bathroom's at the opposite end of the hall." He turned around to show me the way, though I probably could have figured it out. "This is the office here." He pointed out one of two undiscovered rooms. Glancing inside, I saw a long table joining two corner desks. Three computers and countless other items sat atop. "And here is the restroom you seek." Mason must have showered and changed during my nap. He was wearing a new set of clothes and smelled freshly of soap. The same soapy scent that drifted from the bathroom. Plus, without a hat, I could see his hair was still damp as it curled around his temples. My inspection must have made him nervous, because he fidgeted a little, pressing both hands into his pockets, then pulling them out and running them through his night-dark hair.

"Sorry." I escaped into the bathroom and closed the door. It took a full five minutes before my heart would stop palpating erratically inside my chest. What was this effect he seemed to have on me? Whenever I was close to Mason, whenever I _thought_ of him, I felt a warmth wash over me like hot sand.

In order to bide my time and calm any wayward hormones, I splashed my face with water from the chrome sink. With my fingers, I combed several knots from my hair and braided it down my back. When I ran out of ways to straighten my appearance, I opened each of the drawers in turn, finding nothing more than the usual bachelor items. Razors and boxes of generic soap, black and royal purple towels, bandages and toothpaste… Finally, I went back to where the three of them were lounging in the living room.

Cat and Mason were bonding over a game of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, mocking the romantic comedy that was playing.

"This is Cat's favorite game." I found a place at the end of the sofa and nestled in. "Unless you're watching Saving Private Ryan or A Soldier's Sweetheart. In that case, keep your mouth shut or she throws things."

"I don't _throw _things," she argued. "I move them at a rapid rate."

"Ha!" I laughed.

"You like war movies?" Mason asked her. And somewhere very deep within, I felt a pang of jealousy that he was paying attention to her. Not that I'm possessive, or clingy, or lack confidence. And not that he was mine… "Have you ever seen Schindler's List?" he asked, authentically interested in her reaction.

"Oh…" she groaned. They made us watch that in History my junior year of high school, and it was torture trying not to cry in front of all those people."

"Yeah, it was pretty sad," he concurred. "But beautiful."

The jealousy, once a seed, was blooming inside my chest. But after a minute, Mason got up and returned with cups of coffee. He set Cat's on the table before taking a seat right next to me. So close that his side was touching mine. He handed me a mug and then opened his hand to reveal a neatly wrapped piece of butter caramel. "I stocked up."

Jealousy melted away to leave a new feeling – love. Not that I loved him. But I loved that he cared enough to think about me at the grocery store. "Thanks." I was blushing and didn't try to hide it. Instead, as I took the candy, I let my fingers trail along the skin of his hand, making his eyes close momentarily.

Then Cat started talking again and splintered the moment.

We sat through another whole movie that way, neither of us trying to escape the physical contact, neither of us trying to add fuel to the fire between us. He didn't hold my hand, or touch my knee, and that was okay. Just being near to him, knowing he was here to protect me if the need arose, it was all okay. I was even warming to the idea that I didn't have to fight all my battles alone.

Soon, it was time to leave. A very groggy Sarah escaped to the bathroom to freshen up, possibly give herself a pep talk in the mirror. Catrina set her phone on silent and started tabbing through the different contacts, searching for something, or maybe counting the reasons to stay alive tonight.

Mason whispered for me to follow him. I got up from the couch and let him lead me to his bedroom where he closed the door behind us. The past held apprehension, the future was dark and unwilling to reveal itself, but the present – right now in Mason's bedroom – held contentment.

I glanced around at the simple décor. The bed, covered in a thick, blue comforter, was without pretention or a headboard. The lone bookshelf was kept company by a varied display of titles like _A Tale of Two Cities _and _Hannibal_ and _Descartes. _A single bedside table held a cup of water, a lamp, and a laptop with an alien glowing blue carved into its top. It hijacked my mind with an image from my imagination – Smith laying in bed the night my place was assaulted. And with the image, came a taste of guilt, metallic on my tongue. How silly? To think of Smith here of all places. I pressed him from my mind and focused on Mason as he pulled a box from his closet, the one cluttered spot I'd yet to find in his entire apartment.

"What's that?" I asked.

Beneath the flaps of cardboard were those annoying Styrofoam chips. He brushed them aside and pulled something black from the box.

"Is that… a bullet proof vest?" I asked, reaching to touch the fabric. It was surprisingly smooth, not the rough canvas I had expected, but something with a satin finish. Even the thought that Mason found this necessary wrung at my insides. "You got this for me?"

"I got three of them."

After a quick calculation, I realized he would be without protection. "What about you?"

Mason chuckled. "I'll just stand behind you. Here, take it."

_Armor_, I was thinking as he handed it over. With the heaviness of it, probably fifteen pounds I wasn't expecting, my upper body was carried toward the floor with a _thunk_. I hefted it back up, not wanting to appear as weak as I was. _Mail Armor._

"Too heavy?" He looked at me, concerned. "It was the thinnest one they carried."

I pinched the thickness, finding it to be about a half inch. It would fit easily under my clothes, and no one would be the wiser – unless I walked like a troll under its weight. "I don't know what to say." Eyes wide, I looked up at him. This wonderful guy buying me armor and insisting on being there during battle. My warrior.

Softly, very softly, he took my face in his large hands. He bent his knees slightly to look directly down into my eyes. Our noses were nearly touching as he whispered, "Tell me you'll wear it and that you won't leave my sight at the club. Not even for a second."

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?" I joked.

"Laura," he warned in a hushed voice.

It was fortunate he was holding onto me in some way, because my knees got a little shaky. Both uncomfortable with the close proximity, and drunk with his scent, I waited for the inevitable.

Mason was about to kiss me.

The world around us, in all its uncertainties (now that I realized I didn't have it all figured out), seemed to twirl out of focus. My gaze drifted to his hair – hair I'd wanted to touch for days (was it as soft as it looked?) – to his nose and finally his mouth.

Then the phone rang shrill through the room.

Mason breathed deeply – (had he been holding his breath?) – and lifted the cradle to his ear. "Yeah?"

For something to keep my hands busy, I started fumbling with the vest, trying to figure out the snaps and Velcro.

Mason carried on with irritation in his voice. "Yeah, I know who this is. You have the best timing, man… Tonight… Right, that's what I said… Alright, sounds good… I don't think so. Just don't be late… See ya." The phone hit its base with a soft click. "Okay, so I hope you don't mind. But we have someone joining us tonight," he explained to me.

I was still struggling with a snap on the vest. "Who? Why?" I asked, nervously.

Mason took the vest and showed me how it worked. Then, "My friend Greg. I've known him a lifetime, and he insisted on being there tonight as an extra precaution. He won't go in with us – he'll just be there, watching. Waiting for any signals I might give him."

"You know the meeting is in the basement, right?" I gave him my most exasperated look. "Greg won't be any help from upstairs."

Mason shrugged. "You never know. And five just seems like a lucky number."

_Five_, I thought when Mason left the room to let me change. Like a raid group.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, with anxieties zapping oxygen from the living room, we paced and waited for Greg to show up. Mason kept giving me sympathetic looks from across the room. Cat was sitting still as a porcelain statue, meditating on the floor with her legs crossed and her eyes unblinking. Sarah kept folding and unfolding the cashier's check Mason had picked up earlier.<p>

As I calmed myself by imaging Mason really _had _kissed me, there was a knock at the door preceding the entrance of the guy from the bookstore. _When in doubt, rebuff._

"Hey." His voice was a whisper as though he were a doctor coming into a patient's dark and quiet room. Maybe he'd taken note of Catrina and didn't want to intrude on our preparations for death. "You guys ready? I have a cab waiting downstairs."

Mason introduced us all rather quickly. "This is Greg, Laura, Cat, and Sarah."

Greg waved dismally. "You guys got your armor on?" he asked us. Then specifically to Mason, he said, "Not so fun in real life, hu? Agh, we'll be alright." His hand brushed the air as though to wave his comment away before Mason could answer.

Then we were out the door and down the elevator. The waiting cab was perfectly willing to deliver us to our demise - a flashy, strip-club in the seedier part of town.

The front doors swallowed us up like bait. We had the item necessary to finish the quest - but would that be enough?

_We entered the dungeon like an army of misfit hopefuls. A strange calm overcame me as I was pulled into the electric world of elementals and cracking cemented walls. My room disappeared, and I became Heals – without dysfunctional roommates, indecision, or worry about tomorrow. For the moment, I was safe in my mail armor…_

Except that I couldn't just step away from the battle if it displeased me. I couldn't shut down my monitor in selfish abandon. This might be my final raid.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

So sorry for yet _another _delay in updating. But cest la vie, right? Busy, busy...

And hopefully, the length of this chapter makes up for the wait. Did you like it? What do you think?


	16. CH 16

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Wow. Seriously, this was the HARDEST, dang chapter to get on 'paper'. I don't know what was wrong with my brain, if maybe an aneurysm was ballooning to an incapacitating degree, or if my little muse had gotten lost? Maybe wandered to the outskirts of my imagination to pick fruit? (He likes fruit.) Whatever the reason, I stared at this computer screen for weeks on end, going _what story is this again? _Finally, I remembered the near-end to the plot and just barfed it all out onto the page in about a day. Hope it's good:) Thank you wonderful people for all the kind reviews. I never, in a billion years, thought this story would demand so much positive attention! Thank you, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER SIXTEEN-<strong>

My impression of Sarah's workplace was something so dismal and repressed. Like a tawny strip of fly paper holding the corpses of too many unsuspecting bugs. A place where dreams were shattered more easily than blown glass and morals were thrown to a desert breeze. Hallow, shameful, colorless…

The reality was quite a contrast to what I'd prepared for.

Where were the stains and cracks in the walls, restrooms without doors, and a cloud of repression? Where were the illicit graffiti, the stench of unchecked pheromones, and covetous thoughts? Not a single person looked the part of fifty-something, sleaze-ball. Most of the _customers_ were under thirty and more interested in dancing than watching the parade of naked bodies. A surprise by any standard.

When the doors closed behind our group, it was less to trap us and more to keep the blandness of life on the outside - where it couldn't blight our good time. Or, at least that was the assumed intension. Every aspect of the place was part of a strategic plan, calculated to make people at ease with spending their money. I could feel it - the assault on my senses, a balmy and disconcerting wave of light and noise. My mind was left in a state of petrifaction, as I took in my surroundings, _en garde_.

Hypnotic notes that trembled over my skin also filled my ears to the brim and deafened me to any other sound. (The ensuing desire to dance, in spite of our mission, wrestled against my better judgment.) Darkness made room for the brilliance of circling lights in blue and silver. Their flashes caused my eyes to squint time and again. And breathing meant filling my lungs with a cacophony of perfumes mingled with the tang of sweat in the humid air.

I was certain every smell, every musical note, every restless dot of light, was a subliminal message. The conspiracy theorist within couldn't _not _search for the clues of danger around me, because I'd already committed my last careless act – losing the only piece of my mother I'd ever been privy to.

"You okay?" Mason's question may have been intended as a shout, but under the heavy bass, it was simply a vibration I felt near my ear. Only then did I realize his fingers had entwined with those of my left hand. He gave a light squeeze to counter the tightness of what was supposed to be a reassuring smile, and the sensation of moth's wings tickled my stomach.

I had to enlist my toes as I stretched tall enough to place my mouth near his ear where I was sure he could hear me. Newcomers swept inside, jarring my balance and causing my face to brush his neck as I spoke. "I'm just not sure what to do next!"

The contact, no matter how unintentional, seared the worry in his eyes. For a split second, fire burned in the space between us. But it was an invisible fire. One Greg paid no mind to as he rapped his friend on the back and said we should probably get out of the way. And he was right. There wasn't time for light-hearted flirtations.

Still, Mason held fast to my hand, pressing it inward against his chest, keeping me very close behind as we started toward an abandoned corner with two high-boy tables. The softness of his shirt, the ridges beneath, inspired both discomfort and confidence. I concentrated on the warmth of his skin and tried not letting it bother me that we were looking more and more like a couple.

The others followed at a minimal distance, like the vertebrae of a centipede, as we snaked through carousing ensembles. At the table, and in order to keep from having to split up, we pulled barstools into a tight circle and commenced with nervous chatter.

Greg was the least apprehensive, the most excited, about the prospect of danger and victory. "Alright, well we should probably try and blend in. Plus, the four of you look like you need drinks. First round's on me!" He slapped a hand, palm down, on the table, winked, and was off before our depressed group could mention the horrors that might arise by having more than 'a first round'.

Cat's deadpan eyes caressed the room, landing on the far corner. "Wow – can you dance like that, Sare?"

Following Cat's gaze with a baleful one of her own, Sarah sighed. "No… I wish, but those girls are pros."

"I'm sure it takes intense training to look that slutty," I scoffed, letting my eyes wander toward the corner where only a small portion of the club was dedicated to stripping. A brilliant stage, alight with seductive hues of purple and red, sat majestically in the corner. I had to keep myself from staring at the girls who looked more like fitness models, twirling and showing off every inch of their bodies, every crease and curve… It wasn't something I'd ever seen before, and like a car wreck, no matter how hideously perceived, I was curious.

Sarah was obviously hurt by my comment, but she covered her momentary grimace with an explanation to justify why she could rarely make rent. "Some people consider this to be an art form. It takes years to get that good. I'd like to see you try it, _Laura_," she mocked.

It wasn't like her to stand up for herself at _all_, let alone in an aggravated tone. The stress must have been getting to us all, seeping through the cracks of our resolve to handle things in a more mature fashion.

Giving in to the same manor of irritation, I responded with a taunting, "I would, but I forgot my leopard print g-string."

"Oh…" Cat interrupted with a shake of her head, a colorless expression, as she was hardly even there. Her mind was in another place completely – on another plane where time was hours in the future. "I doubt anyone would mind."

I rolled my eyes. Of course nobody would mind me not wearing underwear… Nobody would oppose my climbing the stage and stripping to nothing but the skin I was born with. In fact, the idea was absurd that patrons might mob together in trying to get me thrown out of a strip-joint for taking off my clothes. As laughable as the challenge Sarah proposed in my honor.

Aware of Mason's close proximity, and the fact that he was listening to every word, I smothered my tendency toward a biting response. Both Cat and Sarah were giving me bruising looks, and I was only too aware that if I didn't switch gears, I would likely crash and burn. We were already starting to crumble to ashes – none of us needed my tactlessness adding fuel to the fire.

I apologized through my teeth for disrespecting her 'profession' and turned the conversation back to its rightful owner. "So who are we looking for? What's this Marcus guy look like?" I asked as though it mattered. Really, I was just trying to shift the spotlight toward someone more unlikeable than myself in the current moment.

Mason jumped from the table and loped toward the bar to help Greg. I watched him slip through the crowd, his long steps graceful and sure.

"Um, tall? Rich?" Sarah's answer, after a long, suspenseful pause, was a disappointment. Less than helpful.

Beyond her, Greg had returned with an unbelievable amount of glasses being balanced on two palms, Mason close behind. They re-joined the group, Greg with a sheepish explanation of being a 'waiter slash actor' that fell on deaf ears, and Mason with a straw between his teeth.

"And he has blonde hair," Sarah recalled, concentrating on Greg's ashy spikes and receiving her drink with a sugary thank you.

"Where's he expect you to meet him?" Mason's clipped tone was a surprise. Perhaps he was more nervous than his cool exterior was letting on. But as I paid better attention to his tells, I noticed the rigid way he tossed dark bits of hair from his eyes, the straightness of his lips – no slight curve at either side to let me know he was at ease – the diligent crease between both dark brows.

I decided I liked that he could be humorous when the moment called for jokes or protective when I was in danger, and now serious. The realization of how _much _I was starting to like him left me feeling more anxious than when I was simply afraid of Marcus. Never prone to anxiety, I recoiled inwardly to feel its sharp prongs begin to shred my stomach. With any luck, the alcohol would numb my tender insides before it tined it further. I took a long drink.

"Marcus prefers the Champagne Room. We made our original agreement in there. I figure," Sarah shrugged, "he'll be waiting at ten."

"And you don't have to go alone," Cat reminded her. "We'll be going with you."

Sarah argued. "He's kind of a private person..."

Cat rubbed Sarah's back. "Private or not, we're in this together. It'll be fine. You have the check – every cent he asked for, thanks to Mason."

"Yeah, Mase," Greg chuckled. "You fuckin' hero. Oh, sorry. _Darn _hero." He gave us 'innocent' girls an apologetic look.

It didn't need to be mentioned, but it was all any of us were thinking, and Mason was the one to reiterate. "Yeah, he'll want to make sure all three of you are aware of the consequences of ratting him out. Just make sure not to piss him off." That last was pointed at me.

It was an insinuation I shrugged away. "We're totally prepared," I said, pointing to my chest. "In case…" Seeing the fear darken Sarah's freckled face, I let my morbid sentence trail off.

"In case…?" Greg prompted, dumbly. Apparently he wasn't on my same fatalistic page.

Cat scowled at him. "In case something goes wrong."

"Which it won't." Mason sounded so positive that a feeling of assurance rippled through our little group.

"That reminds me," Sarah jumped from her stool. "I'm not actually working. It would be a nightmare if he asked for me, and the girls told him I wasn't here… I better go warn them." She hurried from the table, Cat following close behind to keep her from trading her cashier's check for a line of mescaline.

"Wow." Greg was watching them go. "That girl's got problems, huh?"

The insensitive comment had Mason glaring at his friend.

But to no avail. "They do know the vest doesn't protect from gunshot wounds to the head, right?" Greg so helpfully pointed out.

"Are you kidding me?" Mason asked, letting his eyes flit to where I sat rolling my eyes at the absurdity of someone trying to protect my delicate sensibilities.

"Oh, sorry…" Grimacing, Greg nodded to my drink and easily changed the subject. "That's a caramel something-or-other with alcohol. I'd been told to get you coffee, but you look pretty tightly wound."

Mason looked on the verge of exploding, but Greg's honesty made me laugh. "Really?" I asked. "Tightly wound? That's nice coming from the guy wearing a girl's shirt."

He looked down. "It's not – it's _not _pink," he explained. "My sister got this for me as a present. Is it pink?" he asked Mason while pulling at the fabric to see it at closer range.

Mason, taking a sip of his drink, let one side of his mouth lift into an almost-smile. "Definitely pink. Hot pink – which is even worse."

"It probably wasn't a gift," I added. "It was probably a hand-me-down when she realized it was too feminine for her."

Greg jumped from his chair in a slight panic and stood directly under a beam of red light. The effect was blinding. "It's orange. Completely masculine," he accessed in perfect denial.

"Just get over here and stop worrying about your damn clothes. If your sister bought it for you, I'm sure it's salmon or something," Mason told him, grinning at me and mouthing the word _Pink_.

"You're just jealous," Greg told him, re-taking his seat. "Everything you own is a washed out black or grey."

"Yeah, I'm crazy with jealousy," Mason sighed with mock agreement. "'Cause I would never have the balls to dress like a transvestite. I'm just too caught up in what society calls normal…"

Without a proper comeback, Greg punched him on the shoulder. Clearly, the two of them shared a tolerant and long-standing relationship. One that had weathered more than just tonight's storm. I saw between the lines of their banter that brotherhood could exist without the tie of blood.

"Anyway," I interjected to let them know a third party still sat at their table. "Not to interrupt your obvious _bro-_mance, but I don't know about this champagne room business. That doesn't sound safe. I thought we'd be meeting up here, in a crowded room, where the thugs would be less likely to shoot me in the head." In saying this, I glared at Greg.

Mason nodded ever so slightly. Behind his blue eyes, made vibrant by the minimal splashes of light, he seemed to be considering my words. Before he could voice a conclusion, Greg piped in with an oblivious grin splashed across his boyish face.

"You really think you have a say in the matter?" he asked me, direct and inquisitive as usual. "I mean, this dude tells you to pay him, how much? Ninety grand? And you scramble around for the money? I'm sure if he tells you to jump, you'll ask how high. If he tells you to lick his-"

"She gets it," Mason interrupted, one eye brow higher than the other.

Having to add another two cents to the pot, and with both hands yielding to the air, Greg agreed. "Alright, alright. I'm just saying – you guys can't plan this out. Whatever the boss wants – the boss gets…" He shrugged off the rest of his commentary.

Shaking his head, Mason reached over and touched the back of my hand where it rested atop the table. It was a tender gesture to match his words. "No matter where the meeting is at, I'll be there. I'm going with you," he stated in a soft voice with a hard edge.

One to melt and cradle my heart. "I doubt you'll be allowed to join the party."

Mason looked like he was about to argue with me further, but Greg's next joking words caught him off guard, derailed the conversation.

"Might just have to three-man it, then," he said with the same lightness he seemed to use in approach to all of life. When he caught the scowl directed from Mason, he shrugged it off. "What? It's just a joke! And it's not like Laura isn't thinking the same shit. Every gamer sees real life as just another battle. Am I right?" he asked me.

I wasn't sure how to answer… Certain I had never mentioned my illicit night-time dealings with anyone aside from my roommates, and knowing they'd never had the opportunity to speak with Mason alone, I couldn't see how Greg knew that much about me. One word fell from my numbing lips in question, "Gamer?"

Oblivious to Mason's growing irritation, Greg continued. "World of Warcraft? You have a short memory? Hey, I just hope your real life healing surpasses-"

But Mason cut him off with a severe amount of urgency. "Time for you to go."

In that moment, I felt transported to a world where nothing made sense. How could they know? Who were these guys?

Shocked and angry, I spewed my first assumption into the air. "You've been _spying _on me?" I jumped from the chair in preparation to put as much distance as possible between me and the boys who knew too much about my personal life. It would make sense, that with all his computer know-how, Mason would be _able _to ghost my computer and watch my every move. What didn't make sense was his reason for doing something so invasive. Did he fear me? Did he think I had something to hide? And worse, had he seen my conversations with Smith?

"Spying?" A very hurt looking Mason was shaking his head in bewilderment. "No, you have the wrong idea _entirely_. That's not at all-"

"Then how?" I asked. "How do you know that about me?"

Greg slithered from the table, finally understanding what trouble he'd caused. "Sorry, bro." Then he was gone across the room. And I was alone with a stranger.

"Please," he pleaded, hands in his hair. "I didn't know at first, and then I didn't know how to tell you…"

"Tell me _what_?" I had only enough time to ask that final question before we noticed Sarah and Cat with matching flushes. They were making their way across the room with two very large men, one of them the familiar Chris O'donnell look alike.

Options were not discussed, as to who would be going and who would stay behind. The two men automatically pointed to me, and I got the distinct impression I was more important to the meeting than even Sarah. It was unsettling, but likely just my over-active imagination. They also nodded silently when Mason opened his mouth to _insist _he was joining us.

One man led the group, one followed behind, as we trekked through oblivious partiers toward a threadbare staircase. It wore the same antique carpet it was given in the early nineteen hundreds when this place was still called a saloon. Each step, shorter than the traditional height, was a jarring reminder of our destination. And oddly, of the four of us, Sarah was the one filled with confidence.

We passed three closed doors, turned down a hallway, and met with a final door. This one had a large EXIT sign over top. Our little gathering was washed aglow with green, neon light.

"Are you… _lost?_" I braced myself for the lead guard to deliver his response with a backhand; I held my breath and squinted my eyes just enough to blur his outline as he turned a slow, purposeful arc to face me. In his hand, was a shiny gun. A large one. A black one. Probably loaded.

"The meeting place has changed," he informed us in a gruff voice. "Any questions?"

"Uh, I have a few!"

"No you don't," Mason reminded from beside me. Certainly good advice as both guards could easily top the six foot marker at the police station.

They led us and pushed us out the exit, into the dark evening where a black SUV awaited our arrival. We were told not to talk, not to them, not to each other, or someone might get a stray bullet in the head. They were pretty good at directing stray bullets.

A million alternate routes careened violently through my mind, along with several reasons as to why we were being abducted. This felt very far away from necessary for a simple debt we were prepared to pay. Did I take a right down the alley and run, take a left and run, go back through the exit? Oh, wait, that wasn't a possibility. It was a symbol of dashed hopes as I turned to see the sleek, handless door. And abandoning my friends? I would kill Sarah or Cat for doing the like – I couldn't very well be the hypocrite here.

When I met eyes with Mason, who stood mere inches away, he still maintained a look of sincere apology. Only now it mingled with fear and curiosity. He was just as lost, in just as much trouble. I could almost no longer fault him for happening across all my personal information – or stealing it. And I hoped he would have the chance to explain, and that the explanation would clear up all my doubts about his friendship.

Soon, too soon, we were ushered into the back of the car where our options were to sit quietly with our eyes closed. The guard not driving turned to watch us from the front seat. Sarah and Cat were in the very back, Mason and I in the middle bench seat. Nobody told us to buckle up, and wearing blindfolds didn't ensure their privacy, because we could easily peak without them knowing. Instead, they urged us to be part of the honor system by holding a piece of cold steal (the gun), two inches from Mason's face.

"Anyone opens their eyes, and this one get's a lobotomy," he told us.

I reached over, halfway forgetting my irritation with Mason, and took his hand into my own. It was a comfort for us both.

The ride nearly made me sick in that condition, eyes being closed always changed the feeling of the car. Not that I ever got car sickness in the past. Probably, it was the combination of twists and turns and my life being on the line.

Just when I anticipated a right turn, the SUV would go left and my body would bump up against Mason. He was a rock though, squeezing my hand whenever he sensed my unease was getting the best of me.

Before long we lurched over a bump, came to a quick stop, and listened to the e-brake clicking into place. The engine stalled, and silence filled our ears. Both guards must have gotten out of the car, because two doors opened and slammed shut. None of us dared to open our eyes until instructed.

When another door opened, the one on Mason's side of the car, the guard told us to, "Hop on out. I don't got all night."

The second, less vocal kidnapper piped in with the gravely cackle he'd perfected by smoking two packs a day. "Neither do they, maybe."

Still, all of us were quiet during the walk through an immensely large garage with several other similar vehicles taking up the space. Six cement steps took us into a butler's pantry, another few tentative paces and we were surrounded by everything familiar to my childhood. Scents of leather and wood polish filled my nose; soft yellow light rebounded off the plushest décor – glass end tables and the speculative faces of several statues. It was elaborate in every aspect, this mansion, and we would never be able to point out its location. For all I knew – thanks to rushing fear and closed eyes – we were ten minutes from the club, or an hour – and in no particular direction.

The guards gave us a silent tour ending in the basement. A segue to several other rooms, the open space was a sanction of comfort with a second fireplace lit to ward off the chill of winter, and reminded me of my uncle Fred.

Cigar smoke, I realized, and aftershave.

As we were escorted into a final room – there really was no other place to go unless the guards were going to try and stuff us into a vent (a morbid thought that made me cringe), - Sarah nudged me and met my eyes.

I could see what she was thinking – that this was much more serious than we had thought. It was like being tempted into a lair, one step at a time, always checking the exit and gauging how long it would take us to escape, until we were so far in that there wasn't one. Not anymore. Whatever Marcus had planned for us – he would get away with. Because here in this place, we were at his absolute mercy.

Thank goodness for Greg. He would notice our absence after a time. When the club closed down and we still had yet to emerge from that blasted basement. He'd probably call the police then – something we should have done in the beginning – and tell them everything he knew. Maybe they'd track us down. Maybe we'd still be alive.

And maybe, just _maybe_, Marcus was taking extra precautions. Perhaps he just wanted this to be ultra secret, and once we gave him _his _money, he'd let us go. After all, anyone who doesn't plan for their prisoner's escape wouldn't make sure they couldn't identify his place of residence. Right?

The room we ended in held nothing in the way of comforts. The thought came and went with little calculation. Simply, there were no sofas, or beds, or tables, or anything save a little lamp and a single folding chair in the corner. Atop it, in very proper ease, sat a boyish looking man with a cloud of smoke to frame the face that countered the reputation.

I was looking at someone who could easily pose as lead singer of a boy band. He was slight of frame and very fair, with the air of a spoiled child, natural blonde hair, and hoops in both of his ears. As he stood to greet us, he made no effort to cover the obvious fact that he played for the other team.

Both guards stood blocking the now-closed door at our backs, and Marcus introduced himself by shaking each of our hands, weakly. Sarah was first to receive his greeting, then Catrina, who scowled in confusion, and finally, he stopped in front of me.

The way his aristocratic finger nudged at my chin was infuriating. I wanted away from his presence immediately, but held my tongue and returned his steady, inspecting leer.

Our eye contact was only broken at the sound of Sarah's quivering voice.

"I ha- have your money," she stuttered, pulling the well-warn piece of paper from her pocket. It was a nice reminder that even though Mason had stomped all over my confidence with his army boots, he might be saving our hides. Without the ninety grand, I couldn't imagine the next minutes of our life, or lack thereof. All I knew for certain is it wouldn't be spent sharing crumpets and cups of darjeeling.

Marcus took the wilted slip from Sarah's hand and smiled. "Charming," he stated with a chuckle. "Payable to cash." Each of us received another calculating stare before he settled on Mason.

"And who are you?" he asked. Apparently, our meeting was just at the begging phases.

One of the guards broke into the conversation then. "You said to bring anyone involved. He was with the girls."

"Um-hmm," Marcus mumbled, gesturing for an ash tray. One of his hired men left the room and returned with a crystal saucer. Marcus nodded, letting the man hold it for him as he ground out his unfinished cigar. Then turning back to Mason, he re-took his seat in the only chair as though it were a throne and crossed his ankles. The guard's explanation hadn't been enough. "Name."

Mason swallowed audibly. "Mason." The word was flat, emotionless. A quick peek to my right showed a man at attention – one who was used to avoiding prison conflict.

"Just _Mason_?" Marcus cracked his little neck from side to side. "Like Madonna? Or Cher?"

No answer. In fact the room was electric with quiet avoidance. Sarah wasn't even whimpering, Cat had turned her stare of confusion toward Mason, and for once I was able to keep my gigantic mouth shut. This man, no matter how unimpressive, was still in charge of our fate.

Mason ground his teeth together just once; the sound was a reflection of his shredding indecision. Finally, after a quick look in my direction – one that seemed to say _here we go_ – he gave his answer. And it changed my entire world, because in that moment, everything made perfect sense.

In a very quiet voice he answered, "Smith. My name is Mason Smith."

_Smith… Smith… Smith…_

The word was a dissonant echo, but only inside the cavern of my mind. Marcus had started talking again – I could see his mouth moving _open close open close_, and his head tilting to the side in obvious interrogation – but I couldn't hear a sound over the buzzing in my ears. Mason was Smith? Smithlol was Mason?

Impossible. Or was it?

The list of their similarities pranced through my head in slow motion. Age – both 24. Occupation – computers, the both of them. Was it possible that Smith – Mason – had tracked my IP address and discovered where I lived? Where I drank coffee? What I looked like IRL? That had to be a stretch…

Still, the facts were undeniable. They shared the same sarcastic humor, had places in upstate NY, and greatest of all proof – they'd reminded me of each other from the beginning. Hadn't I wished that Mason could be Smith? I'd wanted the answer to my romantic dilemma to be that simple – and now it was.

Pressure built up inside me, returning feeling to my limbs. It could only be released when I knew for sure. He hadn't really said the words, that he and Smithlol were one in the same. I needed the answer to come from more than my own speculative assumptions. I needed him to say it.

Flustered (and oblivious to the fact that Marcus was enjoying center stage as he chuckled over the fact that both first and last of Mason's names were occupations), I turned and whispered. "Smith…?"

Mason's face was under a shelter of guilt – regret? "I wanted to tell you."

"All those conversations with _him _were really with _you_?" Something else dawned on me like a vivid sunrise peeking at the edge of my memory, only without the warmth. "Even the conversations _about _you?" The room was silent in respect to my melt down. "_You're SMITH_?" I yelled.

"Wow!" Marcus exclaimed. He was aglow with intrigue, leaning into our conversation, thoroughly entertained by my rigid outburst. "We've got quite the firecracker on our hands, don't we? Probably takes after her father," he mentioned conversationally to Cat and Sarah.

"What?" I asked, dumbfounded that he knew who I was. Though I shouldn't have been; Sarah might have mentioned me.

"You are Laura Donahue, right? _The _Laura Donahue?" he asked me with a knowing and colluding smirk.

I nodded, and Mason gawked. "Donahue Enterprises? In California?" he asked.

My silence was an affirmation.

Mason stepped back. "_You_ are the _heir _to Donahue Enterprises? Your dad is Melvin Donahue the billionaire? And you didn't tell me?"

"Are you kidding, _Smith_?" I yelled at him, through a bubble of hysterical laughter. The irony was instantly hilarious, bringing on a kind of momentary insanity. "Do you want to be the kettle or the pot?"

Catching a bit of the humor bug, Mason actually grinned. "Touché," he whispered.

Marcus clapped his hands together in delight. "Isn't this incredible! Everyone has a secret! Does anyone want to hear mine?" he asked with mystery lacing his tone.

All of us hoped his secret was that he celebrated April fool's day in January. Maybe he'd rip up the check and call it a day. We waited patiently, as though we had much of a choice, as he circled the room to let the _anticipation _build.

Finally, he spoke words we couldn't quite believe. "None of you are leaving until the famous Donahue writes me a bigger check."

Dull silence.

"What?" I asked. "If you actually think I would ever-"

"Oh, but you would," he interrupted. "If I were talking about you."

Cheeks newly red and warm with anger, I stepped toward the little man with his boyish _charms_ intending to strangle the life out of him. But Mason held me back as I yelled. "If you think my father would _ever _give in to your terrorism, you're a bigger moron than I thought!"

"Whoa! No need for name calling, now. This isn't grade school." Marcus laughed at his own joke. "See, Sarah here was an easy target. I knew _of_ her, knew of her roommates, knew she could use a few extra dollars… It was no problem to help her create a debt she would need _you_," He pointed at me – who else? "to fix. And here you are - a fly in my parlor."

Cat's catatonic stare was broken with realization. "This was a trap?"

A knock at the door interrupted all our fun, and two people entered. Immediately at the sight of them, all hopes were dashed that anyone would miss us. Sammy had Greg by the back of his shirt. In the well-lit room, it was clearly pink to match his cheeks.

"Got another one here. He was wit' your kids at the strip joint," Sammy explained as he gave Cat a clear as day _mea culpa _expression. He looked guiltier than sin.

Marcus was less than thrilled, but also less than surprised. "And that makes the five that entered the club together." He picked up a stack of papers off the floor and cupped them in the crook of his arm as he lit a new cigar. Taking a puff and dusting the room with his exhale, he walked toward the door. "Should be fairly comfortable as you make your decision. I'll give you forty-eight hours to think about it. A million dollars," he told me specifically.

I could do little more than shake my head in dumbfounded anger. How did this man think he was deserving of my father's well-earned money?

"This isn't a ransom, either. Once you decide to the affirmative – and you _will _– you'll be making the arrangements with your father to transfer the funds – he'll have to know without doubt that it's for some extravagant purchase. A car, a house. You can make up your own excuse."

The door opened, he and his men left with the chair and the lamp, the door closed.

The door locked.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

So, tell me, tell me! What did you think? Now they're all trapped in a room as dark as pitch.

Hopefully Cat, Sarah, and Ryan will all fall asleep and leave Mason and Laura to work out their differences in private, right?

Though, I have to admit... My characters never do what I tell them...


	17. CH 17

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

For all of you reading my simple little story, thank you! If you have the time to review, I appreciate all comments. As with every chapter, when I start it - I hate it, and when I finish it - I love it. By the time I post it, it's become my favorite, this installment included! I hope you enjoy:)

* * *

><p><strong>-CHAPTER SEVENTEEN-<strong>

The darkness was weighted with abandonment. Like molasses, it was thick enough to be sliced in half with a two-handed sword. One with increased intellect, and a landslide enchant, and… Not that I would use it to cut intangibles when a door needed knocking down and a certain someone needed to learn his lesson.

Marcus had locked us in with no promise to return within the next forty-eight hours. How long did it take to starve? Or dehydrate?

"Is he serious?" Catrina's voice came through the inky blackness, the lack of hope, the absence of anything… We were all completely stunned by the silent chorus of dread and helplessness, except for Cat who was pissed. "He can't be real! This is absurd!"

The sound of banging met our ears, deafening - alerting. At first, I thought it must be the hired hands, exacting their warning, angry that Cat would exhibit such insubordination. Then I realized the rapping came from _inside _the room. It was just the extra _oomph_ to Cat's rebellion. As she continued to barrage the wall, or the door, or whatever surface she could find, Greg's voice soothed the moment, pulling her away before she broke a bone in her hand.

It was obvious he didn't care for conflict. "Hey," he cooed. "We'll figure this out. It's not that big a deal-"

Shrilly, she interrupted. "Not that _big _a _deal_?" At least the banging had paused.

Greg tried again. "They'll realize they don't need a quintuple homicide on their hands and-"

"_Homicide_?" she shrieked. And her voice echoed in the small space.

_Homicide... omicide… icide… ide…_

"Nice, Greg," Mason grumbled. Exactly where he was, I couldn't be sure. "Nobody's dying."

Greg laughed. "Worse. We'll all be crazy in a day. You know this is how they break prisoners of war?" he asked. "But usually it's in a tub of black water, so you don't have _any _sensory-"

"Yeah, thanks for that," I muttered. "Good job trying to calm us down."

"Listen," Mason whispered. There were footsteps above our prison, and voices. Indecipherable murmurs of boredom. "We'll just have to find a way out. There has to be a vent in here, or something."

"And who _exactly _do you propose will _fit _through a vent?" I asked, still slightly annoyed to find that all this time I'd thought of him as a separate part of my life, when all along he'd been Smith. The infamous Smithlol. Imbedded into every aspect of my existence. Like a thread that wove from the coffee shop to my computer…

Catrina's whimpers were smothered, I imagined by a shoulder, because Greg was quietly trying to console her. Someone was walking heavily to my right, pausing now and again. The steps were lazy – Mason. He always walked like he owned the place, slow and purposeful. After a minute he whispered a census. "There's probably a guard or two outside the door – wouldn't make sense otherwise. So, feel free to carry on a meaningless conversation in between my ideas…" He waited.

Sarah spoke up in a rather loud voice. "I'm starving! The last thing we ate was that Chinese food!"

"Maybe a little less obvious?" Mason suggested in a hush.

"They'll bring food if they want their money." I forced the threat through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, dead people _never _pay up," Greg laughed at his own joke. The rest of us bristled at the morbidity. Tension rattled through the air.

"Anyway," Mason whispered. "When we got in here, the first thing I did was check for exits. Old habits…" He didn't explain that prison was filled with hours of trying the cracks in the walls, but I remembered him mentioning the boredom, the thoughts (if only fantasies), about heroic getaways and living on the lam. "The door is pretty solidly locked from the outside, and any banging would probably get us in trouble. But there's one of those little basement windows at the top of the wall. If I can lift one of the girls, Sarah's the smallest…"

"See," she whispered. "Maybe it was a _good _thing I was snorting all that coke."

I could only stare dully into the inky void. There weren't words to counter her stupidity.

"I've got this protein bar, Sarah. You can have it if you want," Mason said in his regular voice, continuing with the hoax that we were too consumed with hunger to contemplate our situation. I felt him move in closer; he was standing to my right now, his side touching mine. We must have been in a huddle of sorts. Then in another whisper, he continued. "Greg's the tallest. He could lift Sarah to the window. See if you can loosen the calking," he told her. "Take your time, and _be quiet_," he warned.

_And Break_, I thought.

Cat began a speech about a war movie she'd seen – a dreary hostage situation. How they never got free. How they all just died of starvation or disease in some encampment. Even the few that had been strong enough to dig a hole under the fence (over a span of a _year_), only got a few miles into the jungle before they were gunned down. Overall, it wasn't a very cheery rendition, but her voice covered any sounds Greg and Sarah made lumbering around in the corner, and it kept me and Mason from having to have the inevitable talk.

Soon, Sarah whispered down that the window didn't _have _calking. Then she asked what calking even was. Greg gave a quick, breathless explanation as he held her on his shoulders, and she swore a second time that it was just very thick glass. She couldn't push the window out of the sill, and she was pretty sure she'd have to be eighty-five pounds to fit through the hole. It was a lost cause.

Mason re-checked the space during Greg's blubbering about his sisters and how they were _not _going to be happy about his death. He'd been all jovial until no escape was evident, then he started to lose it, following Mason around in a circle.

"Just chill, would you, man?" Mason asked him from somewhere near my left. I was standing at the door, setting my ear against the thick wood, trying to hear if any guards were _really _outside. It might be worth it to try and work the lock. I checked my jacket pockets for a card before cursing my cash-only policy. A hundred dollar bill wasn't gonna be able to crack this lock. A ten _thousand _dollar note wouldn't even cut it. My only plan was to try and break down the door with fists and feet. If we got it open and nobody was waiting, we could find a way to safety. If someone _was _waiting, we could just go bat-shit on them…

My plan was vetoed.

"Not a chance, Laura." As soon as Cat's tears dried out, she started acting like the authority on escapes. "Did you _see _those guards? They're each the size of a small rhinoceros. They probably could take us all down with one hand. And frankly, I feel we'd have a better chance just biding our time."

"You mean waiting to starve to death? And then giving them money they didn't earn?" I was trying to keep my voice low – right under the anger. "I don't think there's really a question here. We fight."

"Fight?" That was Greg. He'd gone from joshing at every opportunity to completely panicked. "But you _have _the money, right?"

"That's not the point." Although, it kind of was the point. Dad had a billion, perhaps a trillion, bucks saved away for a rainy day. And it never rained in California, but it was pouring here in Marcus' basement. Did I want to give in to his demands when there was a _chance _he would simply take the money and bury us in his backyard?

I didn't want to end up as fertilizer either way, but it would be better if it was after holding my ground.

I'd seen far too many movies where the protagonist wets himself before giving in to whatever the bad guys want. And I always swore I would never be that moron who couldn't see the gauntlet swinging. They were delusional – fictional, but delusional – to think they could buy their way out of danger, or death.

I sighed into the silence. It was a very soft and gentle sound considering our predicament. I should have been crying hysterically, patting down the walls, pleading for my life through the door. But I was numb. I was daddy's girl. "Look. We can either give Marcus the money, which might not save our lives. Or we can deny him. And the way I see it, as long as he _needs _us for something, we'll stay alive. If we throw a big fit and piss 'em off, we'll probably suffer the consequences. So, I'm with Cat. We bide our time," I repeated her earlier statement.

"And then what?" Sarah asked.

"That's it!" I told her, barely able to keep from shouting. "That's as far as I've gotten!"

A hand touched my back then a whisper touched my ear. "She's just scared."

"And I'm not?" My eyes pricked with the threat of tears, something I hadn't experienced since my last physical melody. A broken toe. After kicking something. After getting mad at the game… But the feeling was back now, full force. And it accompanied a tightening of the throat I tried to swallow down. Worse than feeling scared, I felt out of control. There was no way for me to win in this situation.

And I was _all _about winning.

The whisper drew closer, quieter. "It's okay," Mason promised. "It's gonna be okay..."

Suddenly I remembered a children's game with little plastic cubes of ice all tightly pressed into a flat, suspended surface. An ice-skater sat on top, and players used a mallet to break out the white chunks without letting the skater fall to a cold, dark death. When he did fall, it was usually alongside the rest of the ice – pieces crumbling to the center, disintegrating. The way I fell apart inside now.

There was a respectful silence, as though everyone was visually witness to my meltdown. I turned and allowed the sobs to come full force as Mason folded me into his chest. Embarrassment aside, I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to need someone. I slobbered on his shirt, and let my chest tighten with the strain of shouldering too much responsibility. It hurt, the strain, the pressure squeezing my heart like it was nothing more than one of those sand-filled balloons used to ease ones stress. I could hardly believe myself, but maybe I figured this was a last-hurrah, a final opportunity to just let it all out.

Mason pulled me to a corner. I was too turned around at this point to know which one. But I was fairly sure based on the cool air near the wall, that we were away from the door. He took a seat beside me and coached my head to rest on his shoulder. Then he waited in case I wanted to bare my soul.

The others were whispering. I caught fragments of sentences here and there.

…_sure the window won't open…_

…_you think there're guard dogs…_

…_what if we yelled for help…_

When I was sure nobody was talking about me, like I _cared_, I pulled in a stuttering breath and spoke. "I'm sorry. I'm usually a lot better under pressure."

Mason chuckled. "Like in dungeons when you need to keep your group off the floor?"

"Like that, yeah," I agreed, though begrudgingly. He had a point I couldn't argue, and I didn't feel like discussing game dynamics. "I can't believe you didn't tell me who you were."

"I did tell you." He must have turned toward me as his voice grew slightly louder.

I balked at his claim. "When?"

"I never lied about my name. First name, Mason. Last name, Smith."

"You know what I mean." I tried recalling all my online conversations with Mason, retracing steps and trying to pinpoint moments when he might have slipped up. But I could recall nothing suspicious, nothing that would have tipped me off.

His silent accession goaded me to press him. "When did you finally figure it out?"

There was a bump as he let his head rest against the wall. "Let's see… Well, that first night we met. Do you remember what you said in the coffee shop?"

"Something embarrassing, I'm sure…" I couldn't remember that night passed the chain attached to his wallet and the sexiness of his tough-guy accent. We'd talked about art, minus the 'r', and about our jobs, or lack thereof.

"You described the fact that you were jobless as _dynamite_, and I repeated the word. Dynamite. You then said it was your word of the day in a voice that made me think of an earlier conversation with Heals. Remember that?"

I remembered, and I was grateful for the lack of light that would otherwise expose my crimson embarrassment. "Yeah. You told me I must be dynamite in bed because of my temper."

"Which I loved… Your temper, I mean," he added with some of his own chagrin. "I wasn't sure that night, but it was a strange coincidence, right? And then, with the break-in and Cat mentioning how you play Craft World," he laughed. "It was obvious."

"So, why didn't you tell me?" I accused. "Do you have any idea how humiliated I am that all this time you _knew _and I was oblivious?"

After a short pause, I felt him take my hand.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Fine." My response was little more than a grumble. It wasn't fine. Not yet.

"And why are you humiliated? You were so sweet, trying to be faithful to me when you didn't know what we were…"

He was right about that, which made me dread the light of day. Here in the darkness, he couldn't see that I hated him having the upper hand – but that's exactly what had occurred. He'd known the truth, and I'd been in the dark. Thinking I could have two guys on strings, and that neither would be the wiser of my indecision. Why didn't that make Mason feel horrible?

"Sweet," I finally disagreed in a flat tone. "Sweet to leave Smith hanging while I was out with Mason. It wasn't sweet – it was mean." I wanted nothing more than to find the vent Mason had mentioned earlier and melt through the grates. Disappear forever.

"It _was_ sweet. You were conflicted, and that was my fault. I should have told you… But the longer I waited to say something…" he sounded tortured. "The more I felt like a jerk. And I worried that when you found out, I'd never hear from you again. But then, an opportunity fell into my lap. And I hoped that by helping you with your little money problem – well, I know it sounds bad, but I hoped it would be a bartering chip…"

"Oh!" I laughed cheerlessly. "A bribe?"

"No, nothing like that."

Silence separated us like a wall of dark, cold water. Like the liquid mirror from The Never Ending Story. I waited for Mason to pass through the dense barrier with more of an explanation, because I wasn't sure how to feel, or how to respond. Was I glad that he'd gone to that kind of trouble? Did it prove his feelings for me?

"Laura," he whispered at last. And I felt my hand being pulled to his mouth where he kissed the tips of my fingers, one by one. All resolve to be angry thawed and vanished into the air. A warm mist. Heated and soft inside, even my intake of breath was a quiver. "You _hated _Smith… I didn't want you knowing we were the same guy. I didn't want to lose you…" A soft admission.

"So, you thought if I had time to get to know the _real_ Smith…"

He agreed on a sigh. "That's why I kept seeking you out. Asking you to join groups. I needed you to fall for him so you wouldn't hate me."

"Oh."

"Do you hate me?" In his question, resolve already existed. It was like he _knew _the answer.

Only he didn't.

"No," I answered, snuggling into his side. "Not even a little."

When I felt Mason's arm around my shoulders, I knew it would be okay. The butterflies were in agreement as they fluttered in a tight circle around my stomach where warmth and excitement pooled at our closeness. After so many lonely years of being the bearer of all my troubles, it was a relief to feel a part of a _team. _Even in the darkness of a locked room, with the question of _how will we survive _looming all around, I had hope.

Mason rested his cheek against my forehead and didn't say a word. Only when I grew bold enough to place my hand on his chest did he make a sound. It was a soft, contented sigh to melt any leftover ice within my heart. Then he turned a few inches to kiss my forehead. I closed my eyes, silently wishing we were alone.

* * *

><p>Some immeasurable time later, the group had settled in one of the corners, resolved to our fate, or too fatigued to fight it. We'd exhausted all three of our ideas to escape, and none of them were logical or plausible. We'd paced, bumping into each other, and rambled, and brain-stormed to no end, finally growing quiet like bees under a cloud of smoke. Our choices were obvious. We didn't contain the resources to make a bomb out of matches and carpet fiber, and this wasn't a movie where the script included a way of escape. We were stuck.<p>

And we were paying up – one way or the other.

I didn't want to exude any kind of weakness by giving in, but what other choice existed? Death? Give me liberty or give me death? Actually, in my case it wouldn't be liberty – it would be plain old pride. Right before my fall.

And it wouldn't be _my _fall. It would be _our _fall. Could I trade the lives of my friends, of Mason, for an epitaph of pride?

No way.

"So we can either tell 'em we'll get the money, or tell 'em to fuck off." Greg gave a clear and precise list of our two choices in a tone that made me wonder when he'd popped a few Xanax. He'd sifted through all the stages of grief, landing neatly on acceptance. It was nice, and a little strange, to have him neither joking nor crying about the situation.

"It's up to Laura," Catrina said in a dreamy, deadpan voice that sounded very near to Greg's indifferent one – both in countenance and in proximity. Since our incarceration, which might have been a few hours or a day, Greg and Catrina had boarded the friendship train. They were both animal lovers and health-food freaks. A match made in heaven – or maybe Hades, depending on your perspective.

The carpet was very thin and scratchy, and it had the musty smell of dog. Likely, the very place we rested had been soaked in urine at one time or another. I squirmed, looking for stains I would never be able to see in the blackness. Mason must have read my movement as unease – he reached clumsily to find my hand and squeezed it. I scooted closer, deciding to let him think I was nervous (rather than grossed-out), and let the scent of dog be traded for something far more pleasant – spicy and sweet. I breathed him in, satisfied.

"What will he do if we tell him no?" Sarah's quivering voice inquired.

"We don't have to worry about that," I sighed. "I'll call my Dad – I'll get the money."

There was a chorus of relieved sighs. "So now what?" asked Sarah. "Do we just bang on the door until they open it?" She didn't want to be stuck in here any longer.

I felt her pain. It was cramping through my legs and lower back from sitting so long on a hard surface. "Yeah, we might as well."

"Wait." Greg stalled our movement toward the door with the panic in his voice. Hopefully he wasn't digressing… None of us had tissues or unused words of consolation. "What about when he lets us go? I mean, _if _he lets us go… Do we call the cops? Or pretend it didn't happen?"

"Let's just take this one step at a time," Mason suggested. And I was in agreement that we shouldn't count chickens before they were hatched. There was still a chance we wouldn't make it out alive, even _after _giving the guy what he wanted. Mucho Denero. "But I don't get the murder vibe from him, if that helps. He's into wealth and respect, not prison sentences. And honestly, he must know he wouldn't survive long in the joint. He'll probably just make it obvious he has a whole lotta eyes and ears around the city – you know, scare us into thinking that a trip to the local sheriff's office would be a self-proclaimed death sentence."

Everyone got to standing. There was a rustle of footsteps, several whispers of trepidation. I was about to start knocking on the door when Catrina's voice came from behind me, a warning, a dawning of new fear.

"But daddy wouldn't even give you your allowance," Cat argued. "What makes you think he'll give you a million bucks?"

"You get _allowance_?" That was Greg, letting his voice take a turn toward teasing – even through the emotions he'd smashed into a protective shield. "How _old _are you?" He wasn't getting the major point of what Cat was trying to say.

My heart began to pound more fiercely with new realization. Up until now, I'd thought the choice was between giving Marcus what he wanted and denying him. That I might not be _able _to come up with the money hadn't crossed my mind. But Cat was right. Dad would never give me a million dollars – not in a million years. That type of spending required planning and careful thought. Even if I told him it was for a business venture, he would need to see an itinerary. There was no way for me to scam that amount of cash without him seeing the deception.

My hope of escape flowered before blackening into bitter awakening.

"She's right," I told them, resignation in my tone. "The only way Dad would give me the money is if I told him I was in danger – and Marcus was clear about that."

Greg agreed. "He said to make it sound like the money was for you."

"What if you told your dad without telling your dad?" Sarah suggested. She was standing very close to my right, shivering in the near cold air.

"You mean, like wink?" I asked sarcastically.

She shrugged, brushing her shoulder against mine. "Just call him by a different name than you usually do – act different in some way so he knows something's up."

Would that work? I'd always called my dad, Dad. Would he find it alerting for me to call him Melvin? "Marcus would see right through that! What kid calls their father, their _only _living relative, by his first name?"

"Some kids do it," Greg tried to convince me. "It's a way for them to feel grown up. It'd fit with your personality, too."

"My personality?" I turned toward his voice, intending to get in his face, which I couldn't see in the darkness. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

He chuckled. "You're a _Take the situation by the balls _kind of chick, am I wrong?"

Nope.

I shook my head and went back to worrying about life or death, and not about Greg's opinion of me. "I guess it's worth a shot," I admitted. "Dad's pretty smart. He might pick up on that. And I mean, what's a million to him?"

Large hands squeezed my shoulders; Mason was standing very close behind me, lending courage as I sucked in a deep breath of the stale air.

"It'll work," he stated, an edge of steel in his voice.

We really had no other option. If Mason was right about Marcus not having the murder vibe, then it was likely he would go to far-reaching lengths to get us to bend to his will. If I wouldn't call Dad now and ask for the money, I would do it after some water-boarding and a nice new tattoo of burned flesh…

Really only fun stuff to do during gaming – not in real life.

And I'd rather make that call, even if the chance of it working was miniscule, with all of my fingers intact.

I released my breath in a gush. Everyone was on the edge of sanity. Adrenaline rushed so loudly through my veins it caused a roaring sound in my ears. Just as I was about to start banging, when my fist was raised in surrender, a loud rattling of the door handle sounded through the air. It caused me to freeze in place.

Someone on the outside had read our minds. A key was inserted, and the door swung open. Our tiny group took a synchronized step backward, huddling together. Mason stepped in front of me as he prepared to take the brunt of any physical onslaught. None of us had expected what came next.

Two visitors stepped into the room, light behind them darkening their faces.

I squinted against the sudden brightness, scared out of my mind until one of them voiced his concern.

"You kids okay?"

"Sammy?" Catrina asked with the same shock all of us were experiencing.

"Yeah, it's me. Had to wait for Marcus to head out. We don't got much time." He was whispering through his claim that we were safe and alone at last.

Relief flooded the room like warm lava – opposing the chill. But just as we were taking a step toward the door, toward our freedom, I recognized the second man wearing camouflage, and my blood froze in my veins. Was this some kind of trick? Another trap?

He caught my frightened gaze and gave a scowl. "You don't recognize me, Laura?"

I shook my head.

Mason was standing very near. "What's the matter?" he asked, glancing from me to the man in fatigues.

"Jimmy?" the man asked, still scowling at my lack of memory. "Been watchin' over you since you was a little one. Still don't remember?"

_James?_ "Dad sent you?"

He nodded. "Just after that phone call you two had. Said it was a strange conversation. Had second thoughts about sendin' you out to the wolves that way. I came on out here jus' to make sure nothin' funny was goin' on. Guess Donahue's suspicion was worth its weight, eh?"

Dad had been watching out for me? Tears pricked my eyes for the second time in as many hours. _Damn_. No crying.

"I thought you were working for Marcus," I admitted, cringing against the words. "And you took a _shot _at me!"

"No way, Miss. That shot was for the jewelry vender, sorry 'bout that, though," he said to Sarah, reaching into his pocket. "And by the way…" Coming away with something I thought I'd never see again, he reached toward me, a necklace dangling from his fingers.

The sparkling, or the nostalgia, was as blinding as the light when they'd first opened the door. It was my mother's jewels.

I reached for them the way someone might reach for a mirage in the dessert. The metal was warm and reassuring in my grasp. "But how…?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Had a little talk with your buddy down there – he was easy to convince."

Someone squeezed my shoulder to convey their happiness for me. Sarah was wiping at tears.

Greg was ready to put as much distance between himself and this nightmare as possible. "So, Marcus is out? For how long?"

Sammy looked around skittishly. Every little sound – the crackling of the fireplace, the faraway whine of an ambulance, even the clop of heavy footsteps – had him looking nervous about his betrayal.

_Footsteps?_

We all paused our breathing and listened. They were definitely footsteps.

"Who's still up there?" Jimmy asked Sammy who gave a lift of one bulky shoulder. "I got a whole crew on the way, but that ain't them, I'll tell you that."

"You have a _crew _on their way?" I repeated, because I still wasn't sure about ratting Marcus out to the police. What if this never ended?

"I did my research," Jimmy whispered. "This guy's been tryin' to get his fingers into the big game for awhile now. This'd be the perfect time to prove he's got the guts. Naw." He shook his head at the thought. "Gotta nab him now afore someone gets hurt. 'Sides, you really think yer dad'd leave him out there to hunt you later?"

"Well, is there a door down here that leads outside?" Mason asked.

"This is the basement," Sammy explained.

"So, that's a no?" I clarified.

A muffled voice came down to us, following the pause of the footsteps.

_Two people?_ I mouthed the question to Mason who looked down at me with worry in his grey-blue eyes. I didn't want to see the premonition of blood and fear in those eyes, but it was there. He knew this wasn't the end. Perhaps the beginning to the end that was still a great length away.

We might have to fight after all.

"I think the guy's on the phone." Sammy held his hand in the shape of a handset, placing it to his mouth and ear in demonstration.

We listened, and sure enough there was just the one voice talking. Occasional pauses mingled with the sentences we couldn't decipher.

Sammy continued, having added two and two. "Marcus always leaves a guard behind. He musta been out on the deck when we came through." He bumped Jimmy with an elbow. "Let's hope it's just the one."

"Where's he at?" Mason asked, pointing toward the ceiling. "Can we get passed him? To the front door? You guys know the layout, right?"

Sammy and Jimmy led the group into the lower living space toward the bottom of the staircase. They, along with Mason, discussed strategy. If we slipped quietly enough up the stairs, we might have a chance at getting to the front door before the guard noticed us. But that was dependent upon a fairly silent exit. And four out of seven of us were lumbering men.

Mason opted to take up the rear with Jimmy – they were the best at hand to hand combat, according to them. And they were also the most equipped, physically. I couldn't argue with that fact. Jimmy had a slight beer-gut, Cat and Sarah and me were all little girls whose only exercise consisted of pressing the elevator button, and Greg was tall but far too skinny to exact any kind of damage in a fist fight.

Sammy handed his gun to Mason. "It ain't registered or nothin' – so if you use it, don't point the finger at me."

"Thanks…" Mason looked caught between amusement and hesitation.

Jimmy pointed toward the stairs; Catrina took the lead. And we snaked up the steps, elbow to elbow. The carpet was especially plush, and it covered our steps very easily. It wasn't until we hit the landing, which was made of marble stones set in an intricate pattern between weaving lines of cement, did I grow nervous about making noise.

My shoes had a soft rubber sole, meant for hunting. I was safe. Sarah was in tennis shoes, but Cat was wearing her famous clogs that clunked when she walked.

I nudged her and pointed at her feet, shaking my head.

She didn't look pleased, but she slipped out of her shoes before stepping onto the landing. I pushed them out of the way to keep the guys from tripping, and we moved forward like a centipede – and just as slow.

To our right, the man was still pacing and talking on the phone. Light came through the kitchen; his shadow drifted closer and farther away as he wandered between archway and back slider, unaware of what was happening just under his nose. By his end of the conversation I gathered he was lying to his wife about his job.

Catrina took another brave step toward the entry at our left, but then the man turned suddenly, and she stepped back to the shadow of the stairwell. "What do I do?" She formed the words without making a sound.

Mason climbed the three stairs separating us. He took my chin in his hand, forcing me to meet his urgent gaze. "Quickly," he whispered, pointing with his free hand toward the front door. We could only see a portion of the beveled wood. It was hidden behind a hall-tree. "All three of you run to the door and get outside. We'll take the guard."

Angry and fearful of his sacrifice, I yanked my head away. "No. There has to be a better way to do this!"

Jimmy's nudge to my side was meant to calm me down before I drew the guard's attention, but the gesture was nothing compared to what Mason did next.

Before our live audience, he leaned down and touched his lips to the corner of my mouth. Not quite a first kiss, but close enough to send my heart racing. In that moment, which was only a millisecond but felt like a year, I tasted sweat and kindness mingling with the passion neither of us could quell – even under such dire circumstances. When he pulled away, his eyes mirrored my dualistic longing. We each wanted the other – and we each wanted the other to survive. "I'll be fine," he told me.

If we backtracked down the stairs, we would be underground. Without door or window for escape, we risked ending up in that fucking room again, with James and Sammy as well. Jimmy said he had a crew coming, but what if they never made it? No, this was our only chance.

"Fine," I grumbled.

"On my count." Jimmy readied his handgun. "Three… Two… _Go!_"

In a rush of adrenaline that tasted metallic on my tongue, Cat, Sarah, and I ran for the front door, slamming into each other in a heap against its unforgiving surface. Behind us came the startled shout of the guard who'd dropped his cell phone in favor of his hand gun. Without mercy, he sent a bullet in our general direction.

"Shit!" I ducked.

Catrina fumbled with the dead bolt. "It's locked! It's locked!" she screamed.

I tried helping her, but my sweaty palms were no help.

All at once, my life flashed before my eyes in a stream of emotionless color. In that one second, as I thought about all my regrets, Sammy dove for cover between the living room sofa and glass coffee table, Jimmy told the guard to hold his fire, and a new voice came from somewhere asking what the hell was going on.

Sammy missed his mark by a few inches and flipped the table top into the air. Almost in slow motion, the sheet of glass turned end on end before shattering into a spray of dangerous shards that rained down on him. The baffled voice asked a second time how this could have happened, and I knew at once who it was – Marcus had returned, came through the front door, and locked it behind him when we were too absorbed in our planning to take note of a second set of feet. Still, all I could concentrate on was Mason who'd stepped from the safety of the stairwell, effectively blocking the guard's view of us girls and taking that first bullet in the arm.

He turned to tell us to, "_GET OUT NOW!"_ But the door wouldn't budge, and Marcus was bearing down on our group. His steps were the sophisticated clip of dress shoes on granite as he traveled the stretch of hallway from garage to living room.

Jimmy still had his sights set on the guard, so Mason turned his weapon on Marcus who laughed at his situation. I couldn't see the man, but I was certain he held a gun.

An impasse.

"Another step closer and I will shoot you," Mason threatened in a nice, even tone. He risked a fleeting glance in my direction, communicating that we shouldn't give up on the door as he caused a slight distraction, but my eyes could only focus on the blood seeping from his elbow to the floor below.

_Drip, drip, drip…_

His life was ebbing away, or was it? Could you die from a wound like that? Had the guard hit a major artery?

"Fine," Marcus agreed. "But if you shoot me, I have three more guys on their way who would be happy to take you apart, piece by piece."

My stomach lurched at the thought. _No throwing up._

Sarah's tiny, freckled hands felt up the seam of the door. Her eyes followed the crease to the ceiling where another deadbolt had been attached too far up for us to reach._ Oh._

Fortunately, it was looking more and more peaceful as the men talked things out in calm voices. The guard looked increasingly uneasy, knowing he would be held responsible later. But Marcus appeared satisfied to let us leave as long as we understood the threat to our lives if we ever leaked a word about any of this.

I could see the wheels turning in Mason's head. He needed Marcus to think they were in agreement, all the while extending the conversation until our visitors arrived. Though I was aware of that, it didn't keep me from standing directly in front of the door when it was smashed open.

"NYPD!" someone shouted.

And in that second, our peaceful moment exploded into a cloud of smoke and debris. Splintering chips of wood, leather being riddled with holes, statues chiseled into monuments of war, everything was being hit by a bullet, including me.

In the chaos and the desperation, I didn't have time to do anything other than dive for cover behind a statue of a woman half draped in cloth. Her face was tilted down in sorrow at our predicament, her frame large enough to shield me – if I'd gotten behind her in time. But I wasn't fast enough, and as I reached for the safety of the corner between wall and statue, I felt what might as well have been a brick punching my chest. The force was strong enough to knock the wind from my lungs and alter my trajectory. Instead of hitting the wall I'd been focused on, my body was sent backward, twisting impossibly, and thrown into the ground with enough force to snap my head against the marble.

Before everything went black, I struggled against the suffocation, trying to gulp in a single breath of air, but I couldn't. My chest was completely numb, and there was a new pain. My back screamed in agony, either from being slammed into the ground or from an exit wound. I didn't want to know… I didn't want to see the blood or feel the hole left behind by a bullet. I didn't want to be faced with the extent of the damage.

The scene at the opposite end of the hall took on a dream-like quality, becoming a shadow of its former reality. People I couldn't identify were running, and shouting, and shooting, but their movements were a blur I couldn't quite focus on as I drifted from awareness.

Sounds were all that were left behind as I felt my eyes begin to sink closed. Voices, one in particular, followed me into unconsciousness.

Mason was yelling my name. "_Laura!_"

I wanted to yell back. I even imagined the words that I would say, the words I would gasp through the pain.

_I'm fine..._

_Don't worry..._

_I'll miss you..._

But they were lost, the words, they were lost somewhere between thought and breath.

And then I was gone.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER NOTES:<strong>

In case you're worried - this is not the end. I have one more chapter up my sleeve, so until then...


	18. CH 18

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

* * *

><p>Here is the final chapter of Heal Me! I hope you all enjoyed the adventure as much as I enjoyed creating it (chapter by chapter, mind you). To those of you who reviewed or messaged me, even if I didn't have the time to reply, please know that your encouragements have been immortalized on my heart. I am so grateful, and each one of your contributions have made me a better writer! So *kiss kiss* and *hug hug*! Thank you, thank you, thank you!<p>

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><p><strong>-CHAPTER EIGHTEEN-<strong>

There's certainly something to say for the stressful situation that tightens the bond between people, friends and strangers alike. We could curse our near deaths, our injuries, or we could chose to give thanks for the strain that drew us closer together in the end.

My descent, it turned out, was not into death, but into sleep. And when I awoke, it was by the voice of an angel. A gruff voice, pained to have me lifeless and unresponsive, whispered my name and called me his baby.

With eyes sealed shut, I was very aware. I could hear the things he spoke as though I would never be able to repeat them, as though my hearing was vaulted along with my sight. Mason's fingers touched my cheek. They wiped away the dust that had settled, they begged for my return, and they shocked me with their temperature. Not hot against my skin, but cold. Cold that followed the loss of blood…

_Mason was shot! _ The reminder was violent, ripping through me with a rush of adrenaline. My brain screamed frantically, _Wake up! Wake up!_ But I could do little more than shift thoughts around my mind, and the space was small. Commands were getting lost somewhere between inception and synapse, leaving my body unresponsive, unwilling to sit up, to open my mouth, or to speak. Like a prisoner within the confines of my own skeleton, I was trapped. Was I paralyzed? Advice from my father drifted back to me – one of many simplistic theories - how you were _supposed _to eat an elephant.

Not all at once.

One bite at a time.

Starting very small, I concentrated every effort on, not my right _hand_, but the first _finger _of my right hand. The nail, the tip beneath the nail, a single _cell_ of the tip beneath the nail… I moved it! Then my middle finger twitched ever so slightly. And finally, I fought to bring myself around.

The pains appeared to have dissipated until I took a too-deep breath, awakening fully with the heavy hurt in my chest, the ache in my back, as I moved for the first time. I struggled against fatigue, pushing my lids apart, and felt an invisible axe splitting my head in two as light entered my retinas. The pain caused me to suck in air – another huge mistake. Breathing was like trying to fill an old balloon that threatened cracking with the slightest expansion.

My hands felt for gushing blood, for a hole, but found only my shirt over something very thick and stiff. No blood, no weakness, just a vest. _The vest!_ Then why the pain?

_Bruised. _My mind supplied the feeling. Just a very deep bruise, but no actual bullet hole. I would survive.

"There you are…"

Through the pain I focused on the voice above me, the blurry image of Mason with a deep crease between two dark brows. Dazed, I could only stare at him, re-memorizing his features. Long lashes over stormy blue eyes, hair the color of midnight, slightly crooked teeth that I wanted to touch with my tongue… Lips I wanted to bite…

_Head injury_, I recalled, shaking myself back to feigned indifference.

"You saved my life." My voice scratched over the words like they were gravel. I reached for his arm and the black stain that looked more like oil than blood on the dark sweatshirt. "And got shot in the process…"

Mason's face was pale, and he cringed at my feeble touch. Still, he argued that he was fine. "Merely a flesh wound, m'dear," he quoted in a poorly executed Scottish lilt before shaking his head and going back to his regular Boston inflections. "It's fine. I'll be fine."

"But there's so much blood…" The realization should have accompanied waves of emotion – fear, worry, sadness – but it came out bland and apathetic, the result of shock.

Mason's image spliced into two, wavered, and mashed back into one. "It's not that much," he mentioned huskily, trying to play it cool. Though it seemed the effort to speak was a tiring feat. Behind him, two men in uniform wheeled a stretcher through the door, and I panicked a little, uncertain who they were after.

"Where's Sarah and Catrina?" I asked.

"Up here," came Cat's unmistakable brassy voice. Beside her, Sarah was offering her version of a comforting smile and coming off a little creepy. The both of them looked dusty and disheveled from the shoot-out, but neither was oozing any bodily fluids that I could see.

Something shifted beside them. A taller, lankier shape asked, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

I squinted through the haze and found that Ryan's teasing expression was tainted with worry. "Twelve?" I asked to quell his fears.

"She's fine," he stated to the rest. "Good thing you gave her that vest." He pounded Mason on the back and followed the police officer that wanted him for questioning. A moment later, Cat and Sarah were summoned away, and someone could be heard giving orders.

"Guy in the living room needs a transplant," one of the EMT's was saying. "Tape him up, and get him to the truck. And we'll need another stretcher."

"Who?" I could only whisper.

Mason looked suddenly edgy as he explained. "Sammy… He got cut up pretty bad on that glass table, but he's conscious and joking, so that's a good sign."

"Joking?"

"Yeah, he keeps asking for someone to tie a knot in his artery."

And this was the moment I lost the contents of my stomach. I'm not usually one to puke under pressure, but the image of an artery squirting blood, and then someone trying to create a double-knot, fluids dripping, fingers slipping…

Before I knew it, I leaned to my right and vomited all over Mason. He only stared at me, completely stunned, as an EMT rushed to my side. I felt my head being lifted, there was shouting, and then darkness swam back in to rescue me from the most embarrassing moment of my life.

* * *

><p>A siren weaved in and out of my dreams. I couldn't seem to shake the sound of it in my ears, even after pulling my lids open and finding myself, not in an ambulance, but in a very bright room. It was like spending the day on a boat, and then feeling the waves osculating beneath your feet for another two days afterwards.<p>

With the heels of my hands, I covered both ears, rubbing away the memory that might have stuck to the little hairs within. When the sound finally faded away, another one took over. A nice annoying bleep of the heart monitor to my right.

My head started to pound.

"Knock, knock," someone called through the door, announcing their entrance. A white-clad doctor made her appearance, flipping through a manila folder. She offered a sympathetic smile and set the folder at the foot of my bed, then proceeded to take my vitals. "How are you feeling?" she asked, staring at a watch and pressing two fingers to the inside of my right wrist.

I fought the urge to be sarcastic. "Not fantastic." It was the best I could do.

"The vest you were wearing saved your life, but you'll have some bruising for a week or so. We gave you something for the pain."

"Is that why there're three of you?" I asked.

She smiled, removing the stethoscope from where it draped over the back of her neck. "Is it too strong? I can have your dose lessened."

Less drugs? "No, it's fine."

Dr. Mills, if her name tag was correct, placed cool steel against my chest. You'd think the luxurious material of the hospital gown would protect me from the chill, but shockingly, it did not. "Oooh, cold..." I sucked in my breath.

"Sorry." By her tone, and her unwillingness to remove the offensive object, I could tell she was lying. "Take a deep breath – out – one more."

I obeyed.

The doctor added a note to her file, clicked her pen, and gave me a look. "The vomiting was the result of head trauma. I don't have all the details as to what transpired, but apparently you hit your head fairly hard against an unyielding surface."

"Unyielding – no kidding?"

"I'm sure you've taken note of the bump at the back of your head. There is also slight swelling of the brain – evidence of a concussion. Normally, we would let you go home, but with the vomiting, there's certain risk. We'll need to keep you overnight for observation," she apologized.

"Do I get ice cream?" I asked.

"That might upset your stomach again." She paused with her hand on the door before leaving. "But I'm sure we can arrange something."

Great. Jell-O.

I settled back into my stack of pillows, probably put there to keep me from aspirating. _Cringe._

"Hey, are you decent?" came a familiar voice through the door.

"No." I pulled the blanket up over my head. It wasn't much help. The weave was particularly loose – thank you hospital budget cuts – giving me a nearly perfect view of Mason as he entered _despite_ my claim that I was indecent. Which I _was_. I was wearing paper.

He pulled a little chair on wheels up to the bed. "I'm sure you don't look that bad," he joked.

Yanking the covers back down, I glared. "Be nice, or I might throw up on you again."

"You know…" He took a thoughtful pause. "I would risk that, just to say – _wow_. Not even a sponge bath?"

I smoothed down the tangle of hair around my shoulders, pulling wisps out of my face. Only half of it remained in the braid I'd assembled earlier. The rest was deciding to be an afro. "I guess they thought an MRI was more imperative than a trip to the salon…"

He shook his head in mock agreement to my plight. "What were they thinking?"

"Clearly, about themselves. And possibly lawsuits…"

"Selfish bastards," Mason agreed.

There was a short silence that left me to drown in his eyes – the blue, the kindness, and the sarcastic sparkle that I could now identify as belonging to Smith. Under my gaze, he became uncomfortable and tousled wet, black hair. The evidence of a recent shower wafted into the air, the scent of generic soap. He was also wearing a fresh change of clothes. The bullet hole and all traces of blood were gone.

"How come you aren't in bed?" I asked without first filtering my words.

Mason widened his eyes. "Do you _want_ me in bed?"

I blushed uncontrollably, pulled my knees to my chest, and hid my face between crossed arms. "I _meant _a hospital bed. Your _own _hospital bed."

Mason chuckled. "Because I'm not the one who was unconscious during the ambulance ride. And by the way, you talk in your sleep."

Slowly, I peeked over the barrier my arms were creating. Sensation left my face, taking color with it, I'm sure. _No, no, no…_ The only people who knew of my sleep-talking were my father, nannies who hadn't really cared about the Care Bears most recent adventure on cloud whatever, and my roommates who were smart enough not to listen. Or if they did, they never ridiculed me – the way Mason was sure to do. "What did I say?" I whispered, cringing against my own question.

He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort as he leaned endearingly against the back of his chair and grinned. "So many things…"

"Tell me." I narrowed my eyes persuasively.

Sucking air through his teeth, he answered with, "I don't think you wanna know."

"Probably not," I conceded. "But tell me anyway." So I have good reason to hang myself.

For a second, he looked on the verge of teasing me, but then he leaned forward with a more serious expression and quieted his voice. "You were saying that, that uh…" Unable to continue, he paused and blushed – _blushed _– before looking away. Tracing the cheap hospital blanket's knit design, he appeared to be gathering courage.

_This is worse than I thought._

Finally, when he met my eyes, his were soft with emotion. Something I hadn't yet seen. "You said that you missed me, that you needed – me… You called me yours. Your warrior…"

My head fell into the safe-haven of my arms once again.

Mason took a deep breath. "It was sweet," he whispered. "Was it true?"

"No. It was all lies." I was so impossibly embarrassed, my face burned crimson.

Discomforted, Mason chuckled. "Wow, you really know how to tease a guy."

"Go away…" The demand was half-hearted and garbled through my arms. "I look horrible, I _feel _even worse. I can't believe I threw _up _on someone…"

"Yeah, that was a first for me, too," he admitted with a smile in his tone.

"So glad I could deflower you," I grumbled, feeling tentative fingers touch my knee. "Next time maybe we can tar and feather each other.

"Hey…" He tightened the tension by scooting closer and placing a hand on each of my elbows. I tried not thinking about how nice it felt to have him touching me, to have him in such close proximity. "Don't be embarrassed. I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm not okay. I have a concussion," I told the space above my stomach. "I blame that for whatever I said in my sleep…"

"Don't say that." The yearning in Mason's tone matched the one that twirled in my stomach, like a tornado of small feathers. The one I tried to will away with self-berating as it shifted and tickled and made me want to squirm away from the feeling.

But should I? Should I avoid my feelings? Or would it be okay to like someone, to love them even? To care about what happened to them? To want a warrior in this life? Someone to _actually _protect me – the way Mason already had?

Having decided to be honest and tell him how I truly felt, I shifted my gaze, letting it pan up from where I was looking down. The smallest motion made me suddenly dizzy. Dizzy, and ashamed, and – _gasp_ – needful as I gave him an unfiltered attritional glance. And this was the moment I lost my mind. Up and through the gratefulness that my friends had survived, through the longing for Mason, came actual feeling. Tears made their appearance and dripped down my face. "I'm sorry," I sobbed.

"Oh, Laura…" Mason abandoned the chair for the bed. He pulled me into his chest and held me while I cried on his freshly washed shirt. "Don't cry. It hurts when you cry," he whispered into my matted hair.

But I could help the crying about as much as I could help the sudden burst of feeling and honesty. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I sobbed.

He rocked me from side to side and kissed my forehead. "Why are you sorry? Everything worked out well enough. Marcus is headed to prison, Sammy is recovering, and aside from your little mental breakdown, you'll be fine, too."

I used my shirt to wipe away the tears then laughed. "True."

"Plus," he added softly. "You're here with me…"

When I pulled together enough daring to look up, Mason was inches from my face. His lip was between his teeth, his eyes were searching. This was not how I wanted our first kiss to be; I'd envisioned myself a little less injured, a little less ugly, a little less hospitalized…

"True," I repeated, listening to the heart monitor speed it's betrayal of beeps.

Mason smiled but ignored the machine. Instead, he touched my lips with a middle finger. "Would it be alright if I…" He trailed off, shaking his head and answering his own question by _finally_ leaning in to kiss me. Maybe it was a sigh of relief, but his breath escaped as he took my lower lip into his mouth. He tasted like clean water.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around his neck. There was no choice but to melt against him, feel his hands at the back of my head. Wonder if he felt the same trickling burn...

The kiss deepened until a new dizziness took over. Mason must have sensed a change, because he pulled away to ask if I was alright.

I could only stare.

He leaned me back on my pillows with a look of panic on his face. "Should I get a nurse?"

"It's the drugs," I explained with a glance at the IV still attached to my arm.

"Oh." Relief. "And here I thought it was my kiss."

"That too." I was far too weak by now. Too weak to deal with new visitors, but here they came anyway.

My father's entrance was preceded by the sound of him telling a nurse what to do outside my door. Then he swept into my room with his usual take-charge aura, two uniformed men at each elbow. One glance at Mason, and he barked out, "Who are you?"

Mason gave me a quick _help me _glance and then straightened to his full height. "Mas-"

"Yeah, yeah." Dad waved him away. "Mason Smith, twenty-four, did some time for a non-violent, computer related incident…" He ticked off the resume he'd memorized.

Mason's next glance in my direction said _what the f-._

"Hey, Dad," I interrupted weakly and very dryly. "Let me introduce you to my friend."

"Sweetie," Dad greeted me with a kiss to the forehead. His familiar aftershave filled the room with scents of amber that reminded me of my childhood and sitting in his lap by a roaring fire. It was his usual behavior to scope the people I was associated with, so I wasn't at all shocked at what he'd dug up on Mason, or that he even _knew _of Mason. I was just glad he'd used the word 'incident' instead of 'crime'. But what he did next _wasn't _usual Dad behavior, and I had to smile inside to see him reach out a hand of greeting. Dad didn't offer handshakes to just _anyone._

"I know all about Mason," he informed the room. As they shook cordially, Dad explained. "She's my one and only daughter. You can't blame me for doing background checks on her friends."

Mason nodded once. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Donahue."

"Nice to meet you too, kid," he told Mason with a chuckle. "Kind of an entrepreneur yourself? You can call me Melvin." He extended the exclusive invitation that had nothing to do with their financial commonalities. Dad actually liked Mason…

Two nurses came bustling in just then, both of them blushing and asking _Melvin_ what they could possibly do to make him more comfortable. They offered him coffee, tea, everything short of fresh-squeezed lemonade. Neither of them even looked in my direction.

"No, no. Thank you very much." My father, the charmer. "I'll let you know if we'll need further assistance. For now, just a sedative for my daughter, she's having a bit of _stress_."

"Of course, of course," they agreed. Enter two more nurses in a frantic rush to please _thee _Melvin Donahue.

You might think, after years of this exhausting treatment, that Dad would be tired of the attention. But he was ever graceful and kind, the two traits that had gotten him so far in life. When the room finally cleared, and (against my protests), one of the nurses had pressed a button near my bed that released a fresh dose of whatever opiate they were feeding me, Dad took a seat on a corner couch and explained all about how he'd hired Jim to watch over me without a clue that the situation was so serious.

The room started getting hazy, and Dad's voice started blurring in and out. The last thing I remembered before passing out, once _again_, was the feeling of Mason's fingers entwining with my own.

* * *

><p>It was two whole days before the hospital would release me, and let me tell you what a relief it is to be in a warm bubble bath, in your <em>own <em>tub, especially after being shot and getting a concussion. The brain damage was minimal – yes, that sounds like a bad thing. But as precious Dr. Mills explained, we suffer _some _brain damage every single day. Some more than others…

As I rested in my tub with deep conditioner that smelled of papaya in my hair, there was a knock at the door. I'd forgotten to lock it, so Sarah and Cat rushed in to 'check' on me – again.

"I'm fine!" I told them. "One bump on the head, seriously…"

"We just wanted to show you something…" Sarah sang. Her eyes were clear and bright for the first time in years, and she was even starting to put on a few pounds. After our 'experience', as we were calling the gun-shot wounds and near-deaths, she'd sworn off her dangerous lifestyle and even took me up on my offer to help her with culinary school – that is _if _'Daddy' would reinstate my allowance.

Which he did. And it didn't take a lot of convincing, either. The only stipulation was that I keep working a job – any job.

"What?" I asked, sliding farther into the bubbles. "What's so important that it couldn't wait?"

Cat left and returned with a basket of wild-flowers so huge it obscured any view of her head. "Guess who sent them?" she asked on a giggle.

"Oh gee…" I rolled my eyes and pretended not to have a clue. "Marcus?"

They both laughed. Cat set the flowers on the toilette where I could reach for the tiny card attached. "What's it say?" she asked, practically jumping up and down.

_To my favorite healer of all time. I miss you like crazy. –Smith_

Mason had taken me home from the hospital, strictly on Dad's orders. Yeah. Then he'd stayed a week on my couch just to make sure I had everything I needed whenever I needed it. Yeah. Now that he was back at his own apartment, I was getting flowers every other day, and Sarah and Cat were missing him almost as much as I was...

I handed them the card with a sigh. "Okay, now get out. I need to get ready."

After drying my hair, parting it down the middle, and fixing it into two very girly braids, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a purple sweater made of cashmere. Mason had promised nothing fancy, so I'd agreed to go out with him – on our _first _official date. I donned a white, knit cap, and even dabbed my lips with strawberry lip gloss from Sarah's collection.

When he arrived, I opened the door with butterflies in my stomach. The guy had put up with my temper, let me puke on him without complaint, and tried to pay my way out of a very deadly predicament. He really was my hero.

"Hey." I smiled shyly.

He didn't say anything right away, just watched my eyes before leaning in for a long hug. "I missed you."

"I heard."

"Are you ready?" Mason was wearing a long wool coat over dark jeans and a black sweatshirt. The hood was visible above the collar of the jacket; the entire look wasn't much help in letting me know the night's plans.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see," he teased. We escaped the apartment to the sound of Cat telling me _not _to be home early. Outside, the cold was blistering as we walked two blocks to a coffee shop I had somehow never noticed before. Mason opened the door for me. "After you."

I gave him a questioning look in passing. "Coffee?"

The room was washed in a soft, orange glow from several old-fashioned table lamps. The furniture was quaint, if not new. Several wooden tables were scratched up and surrounded by mismatched chairs that had at one time been painted a version of blue or green. Behind the counter, two girls were wearing their street clothes – no uniforms – and frothing milk while laughing about some unknown joke. Everyone else in the café was busy staring into their laptop monitors until Mason locked the door behind us and turned the open sign to closed.

"Hey guys, I want you to meet someone."

Suddenly self-conscious about so many eyes assessing me, I looked down at my boots and took a deep, steadying breath. "What are we doing here?" I whispered to Mason.

He chuckled and took my hand. "You'll see." To the rest, he said, "This is Laura, AKA Heals."

A few people snickered. All of them greeted me in a chorus of hi's and nice-to-meet-you's. If I was confused at entering a closed coffee shop, I was more-so at seeing several strangers recognize my gaming moniker.

But I waved, nonetheless, before asking a second time. "Seriously, _what _are we doing here?"

Mason stepped behind me and took me by the shoulders as he pointed out each person in turn. "Well, you know Greg, and that's his twin sister Gloria. Then there's Monika and her boyfriend Samuel. Jen and Barb own the café, they're the ones making drinks and letting us use the place…"

"For _what_?" I turned partway around, glanced up at Mason.

"You know you're on an east coast realm, right?"

No, I did not know that, but it made sense that I would. How would Healslut ever get into a group for runs if everyone was still working during the hours she played? "Oh."

"Basically, most of the people you've been running with live here in New York." He waited for me to register understanding. "I found a couple of them. That's Zekari…"

Zekari stood from his table and offered a hand to shake. I took it, mesmerized. "The hunter?"

His hazel eyes warmed with a laugh. "Some days. It's good to finally meet you." He offered me one aristocratic hand to shake.

I took it, mesmerized by the silver in his short, dark hair. He was thirty, or maybe forty in fantastic shape. "Ditto," I offered, sounding like I was fourteen.

"And that's Fire back there." Mason pointed out the little, balding man sitting near the restrooms. He waved and grinned the biggest smile I'd ever seen on such a small face.

I grinned back, realizing how right I'd been about his appearance. He _did _look exactly like a gnome. "And the rest?"

"And the rest are friends of mine," Mason answered. In a flourish, he produced a large box and led me to a table at the back. Watchful eyes followed. We set up camp, the girl Mason had called Jen brought us warm drinks, and I opened the box after a bit of prodding.

The Styrofoam made that annoying squeak as I lifted something from the box. It was a laptop, a _nice _one. I had to laugh.

Mason was grinning beside me. "I thought, given the circumstances, that a LAN party would be our perfect first date."

And it turned out, he was right. We played, side by side, for hours. And it was nice not to have to type out every little thought or direction. The room communicated, and laughed, and joked throughout the runs we did. The night turned out to be perfect.

Fire was just as exuberant in real life; Zek was just as calm and presuming. Ryan and his sister could be heard discussing the shirt she'd gotten for him and whether or not it had been a joke to gift him something 'so damn pink'. By the time we were packing up and heading home, and Mason had taken my hand as we wandered down the sidewalk, I realized what a perfect night he'd planned.

"Thanks." I looked up at him, my eyes stinging from the frigid air.

"For what?" he asked with a teasing wink.

Unceasing traffic passed with a comforting blur of noise, and streetlights illuminated the first flakes of a wistful snowfall. We were passing an abandoned ally, just a crevice between two sky-scrapers where Mason pulled me into the cove and then into the cocoon of his jacket. After a long hug, I reached onto my toes and kissed the side of his neck – in the darkness, I felt brave, adventurous.

"Tell me," he whispered on a sigh.

I thought about my answer and how it would affect my reputation. Then I figured fuck it, Cat was wrong about honesty not being the best policy. "For being my warrior," I admitted.


	19. Friend Me!

Hey all you wonderful readers and writers! I just started a new facebook page for my writing. If you'd like updates on upcoming books, feel free to friend me! You can search for LS Jules or click the link on my profile page. And I hope all your muses are happily working away!


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